Painting the Past
by Choco-Loki
Summary: Sequel to CTD. It's been over a year since Felicita and her friends discovered their parents' identity as nations. But due to a mishap, they get transported back in time to 1960, 15 years after the end of WWII. Warnings: mpreg, crossdressing, yaoi.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello, everyone! We're starting fresh and new. For those who've never read Connecting the Dots, old character guide is in CTD Chapter 21. Forgive me, I will post a complete PTP character guide once some of the new characters have been briefly introduced (here's a simple one). I did do a lot of research on post-WWII and making sure the days/dates in 1960 match up with the present, so I'm hoping it's accurate. XD **

**Reminder: Mother countries crossdress and have the ability to switch to their girl side without anyone suspecting them to be guys. So no genderbending, but lots of yaoi.  
****Warning: Chapter 1 may be sort of a drag, but I promise you that I have all the events straightened and lined up. I apologize! Once again, name coincidences are not my fault. Please don't complain to me about it. :|  
****All grammatical/sp errors and DM linked words will be corrected after publication. Thank you! DOCUMENT MANAGER, Y U NO UN-LINK WORDS? D8**

**PLEASE READ FOR PAIRINGS: RusAmer, FrUK, GerIta, Spamano, Giripan, and PruCan **have been established! If you do not like these pairings then you should leave before you cannot unsee my writing. Other than that, please enjoy.

**Aloisa ****Beilschmidt—**GerIta  
**Felicita Vargas Carriedo—**Spamano  
**Evangeline Bonnefoy—**FrUK  
**Alec Bonnefoy—**FrUK  
**Adrian Braginski—**RusAmer  
**Mikhail Braginski—**RusAmer  
**Yukiko Karpusi—**Giripan, able to perform small bits of magic due to her being the Kansai/Kinki district (this works the same way it does with Arthur's Britannia Angel, explained before in CTD), though her powers are enforced with the past superstitions and beliefs that were alive during the Heian period in Japan. Kiku has lost most of his powers, though, when Japan became modernized many years ago.  
**Melanie Beaumont  
****Ellen Mercer—**Aloisa's friend  
**Angelina Allred—**CTD character, switched schools, harassed the kids last year  
**  
For those unfamiliar with A Midsummer Night's Dream, pairings are:  
****Lysander/Hermia  
****Demetrius/Helena  
**"**Fairy King" Oberon/"Fairy Queen" Titania  
**(But in the beginning, Demetrius goes after Hermia.)

**Alrighty, people. For the new readers, here's twenty-two chapters of CTD in one sentence: Felicita, Aloisa, Mikhail, Evangeline, Adrian, and Alec follow their parents from California to Washington D.C. when they think their parents are hiding something from them, America and the mother nations are beautifully dressed women (no genderbending though), Adrian and Alec make out, Hungary and Aloisa go shopping, the teens discover their moms are male but have given birth to them before (the magical power of mpreg), they find out their parents are actually nations, bully character Angelina gets her skinny butt fried, Adrian and Alec make out some more with dramatic rain in the background, and the kids get a file with historical evidence from the day their parents/nations formed with some information missing. Yep, that's pretty much it. Oh, and there is a creepy babysitter called Lisa. **

**And I've just butchered my own work. Figures. (Guess what? I've fixed the spelling of 'Braginsky' into 'Braginski'! That was a lot of work…XD But now CTD/PTP will use the new spelling.) **

**Also, go check out the fanart some lovely peofple have done for CTD on my profile. You guys are so awesome. ;w;**

**NEWS: Jyro, being the lovely person she is, has offered to make a Connecting the Dots doujin! How exciting! I really look forward to it and I hope all you readers will too! I suppose she'll post them on her dA, so here's the link: **http : / / staneshiftthewolf. deviant art / .com**…since I'm such a nincompoop noob at this, I'm going to ask you readers what scenes you want to see in the doujin, or just the ones you love the most [in CTD, so maybe if you ask nicely, Jyro can incorporate it into the doujin]. This is just as a reference. You can comment in the reviews or write them in Jyro's dA, mk? Thank you!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

_Monday, November 28, present, a year after D.C. trip, 2:14 P.M., Drama classroom…_

"Miss Bonnefoy, would you please put your laptop away!"

Evangeline Bonnefoy looked up from her screen to Ms. Stevens. She sighed and tucked her laptop into her backpack, wondering why she ever gave in and put Drama down as an elective choice when Aloisa Beilschmidt begged her to. "_It'll be so fun, I swear…" _Right. This was so fun.

Her brother was sitting on the lap of Adrian Braginski and whispering into his ear, smiling. She hated how Ms. Stevens always chortled at them, _Oh, they're doing it for the sake of acting, those two_, and how the female population of the class never ceased drooling at the pair. Everyone thought they were only fooling around, but Alec and Adrian weren't acting, not one bit; she knew they were taking advantage of the situation. Adrian was sharing his scarf supposedly hand knitted by his Aunt Natalia (he was reluctant to wear it, but he got used to it when he found out it couldn't be used as a murder weapon) with Alec, wrapping it around each other so they'd look like some dreamy model couple type, Evangeline assumed bitterly.

The French classroom was right next door, why couldn't she have picked French for her elective—oh, never mind, she wouldn't have chosen French anyways, her parents, especially her mom, would never let her hear the end of it. But at least she wouldn't have to watch Alec act gross and this Drama teacher make a fool of herself. The French room and the Drama room were originally one big, joined classroom, until some brain decided to divide them into two by fixing a fold-and-slide wall in between. The wall separating the classrooms was so thin and cheap-looking it was a miracle they didn't fall down by now; delighted shrieks and squeals emitted from the other classroom, which did nothing to improve Evangeline's mood.

Aloisa tapped her shoulder from behind. "I heard that there's a really hot substitute for French today. That's what all the girls were talking about."

Evangeline turned around, her expression bland. "That makes me feel a lot better."

More high-pitched girly screeching came from the other room. Evangeline was ready to tear the wall down and break the substitute's face.

Ms. Stevens cleared her throat. "As you all know, our winter play has been decided, and auditions have already took place. We'll be doing _A Midsummer Night's Dream _and performing on Christmas Eve!"

The students stared at her blankly.

She continued dramatically, "I'm pleased to announce our very own Aloisa as Titania!"

Evangeline wiggled her eyebrows at Aloisa. "You tried out?"

"Yeah, so my dad wouldn't make me join the track team again. I dragged Felicita and Ellen with me, but the auditions were really strange. Some people who performed better than me were rejected, and I forgot a lot of lines…"

Ms. Stevens bellowed out, "And I'll read the rest of the cast list. Some people have auditioned for the roles, though the main characters I have reserved for specific people!"

"There's your reason why." Evangeline reclined against her seat and let out a deep sigh. School was nearly over, she could sleep for a while…

"B-but that's unfair!" Aloisa sputtered. "That's so biased, teachers can't do that—"

Unfortunately, Ms. Stevens's voice was too loud for Aloisa to shout over. "Evangeline Bonnefoy will play Helena, Alec Bonnefoy will play Demetrius—"

Evangeline's eyes snapped open. "What?"

Ms. Stevens exhaled as if she was talking to a dim-witted kid. "Evangeline Bonnefoy will play Helena—"

"I didn't even try out!"

"I know." Ms. Stevens nodded. "I chose you."

"W-what—you can't do that—!"

"Sure I can. If you look the part you can probably play the part."

Evangeline's mouth opened and closed in disbelief. "That's the dumbest logic I've ever heard!"

Alec hollered out from across the room, "Afraid to kiss Demetrius, Evangeline?"

She whipped around, "Yes, I am. Now go back and suck face with Adrian, I'm talking here!"

Ms. Stevens retorted, "I've picked you for the role, you should be—"

"Ms. Stevens?" called out a voice. "I could play Helena if Evangeline doesn't want to."

Ellen Mercer gave a small, hesitant wave at the blond. Evangeline recognized her as Aloisa's friend, the junior from varsity for cross-country. She was the one that obsessed over her brother and Adrian together with Aloisa. Evangeline smiled at Ellen as Ms. Stevens coughed and scratched out her name with a pen on the role sheet.

"Then Evangeline can be Hippolyta," Ms. Stevens concluded, seeming bent on having Evangeline in the play.

Evangeline stared at Ms. Stevens furrowing her eyebrows into a single, bushy line. "You need to ask me for these types of things, stop assigning random roles, you great big—"

Aloisa pushed Evangeline back on her chair before she went into a full-blown rant and continued for the girl, "Ms. Stevens, what she meant was that you need to ask for permission before you give people a part in the play—"

"That wasn't want I meant at all!"

Melanie Beaumont rolled her eyes at Evangeline. Being promoted to cheerleading captain only added to her enormous, insufferable ego. It was no secret that she wanted Adrian to date her, the way she hung on to his shoulder when Alec wasn't present, and it didn't seem like she was going to give up anytime soon. "Shut the hell up already. You got dragged into a crappy play; you don't have to announce it to the world. Your voice is totally killing my ears, you know that?" She examined her heavily done makeup in her compact mirror and reapplied her lipstick, smirking at her reflection and Adrian's reflection in the corner. She scowled at Alec and snapped the mirror shut.

Evangeline turned on her, belligerent. "Like you sound any better, bi—"

"My voice is ten times better than your screeching—_ow, ow, let go, let go! You're going to mess up my hair!_"

"Girls! G-girls…! Don't—"

"You auditioned for Demetrius?" Adrian asked incredulously. "Of all the people who would've—"

"I didn't audition," Alec replied, nimbly hopping off of Adrian's lap and returning to his desk, ignoring the commotion Evangeline and Melanie were causing. "She chose me. Why?" He leaned across, grinning slyly through his bangs. "Jealous?"

Adrian's hand shot into the air and Alec stared at him. "What are you doing?"

"Ms. Stevens, I'd like to volunteer for the role of Lysander."

Alec grabbed Adrian's arm. "Are you crazy? You said you hated Drama!"

"Why do you think I took it?"

Alec's cheeks flared up. "T-that's—"

"Then I volunteer to be Hermia!" Melanie suddenly cried, wringing away Evangeline's hand and forgetting her initial declaration. She released her clench on Evangeline's shirt and belted out to the frazzled teacher, "Put me down as Hermia and Adrian as Lysander, right now! Can't you hear me, lady? Do I have to spell everything out for you?"

Aloisa buried her face in her hands. "You'd think the school was only big enough for one Angelina."

Evangeline crossed her arms. "It is. Melanie's the new one."

Ms. Stevens looked frantically at Adrian then Melanie then Evangeline, her pen poised. "O-okay, okay! Just give me a moment—"

The door tapped lightly, three times, accompanied by a bout of muffled snickering on the other side. Melanie instantly raced for the door, hissing, "It's the French teacher from the other classroom! Shut up, everyone!" She then made a big show of fluffing up her dyed auburn hair and readjusting her bra before she slammed the door open.

"Hello, Mr. Bo—" She smiled flirtatiously, but was instead greeted by a slender, blond sophomore, her face red with laughter; behind her gathered the entire French class. Melanie put both manicured hands on her waist, obviously disappointed. "Who the hell are you?"

The girl giggled obnoxiously. "M-my teacher was wondering if you guys had any extra roses left over from last year's play, _Romeo and Juliet_."

Ms. Steven set her roster down. "Roses? Whatever for?"

"A d-demonstration," she snickered. "He said he was going to show us a trick—"

The substitute popped in and strutted into the Drama classroom. "_Roses! La fleur d'amour et de passion! _But if you don't have any, which is very unfortunate, I think I should give you one…" And he reached into his sleeves and pulled out a single flowering rose, which he threw into the air. All the girls squealed and dove for the falling flower, while Evangeline and Aloisa took a step back.

"Please tell me I didn't just see your dad," Aloisa whispered to Evangeline.

Evangeline didn't blink. "Please tell me I don't hear his voice getting closer."

"I hope all of you lovely ladies are doing well, _non_? If you aren't, maybe you'd care to pay a visit to Big Brother Francis…"

"His voice isn't getting closer."

"Thank you."

Aloisa saw the entire female population crowding around Francis with glittering eyes and expectant faces, but Francis was making his way across the room. Alec had dragged Adrian to the end of the room and behind a closet, successfully evading his dad. Evangeline was attempting to slink away and join Alec; she was currently halfway out of the underside of her desk, her back on to the floor.

Wrong move. Francis saw the motion and climbed on top of Evangeline's table, his lips curved in a knowing smile and second rose offering out. "_Ma cher_, why would a lovely girl like yo—wait, Evangeline?"

Evangeline was equally surprised. "My_ dad _is the hot sub? What a disappointment…"

The surrounding girls choked a disbelieving, _What?,_ when they realized the handsome, young, supposedly single Mr. Bonnefoy they'd been hoping to go out with was married _and _had children. "Well, thank you for supposing that I was hot, but what are you doing here?"

"This is my classroom."

"Oh."

The blond sophomore, who was too far to hear Evangeline, surged to where Francis was and wrapped herself around his arm. Up close, Evangeline noticed that her skirt was way too tight and revealing, especially from the angle she was at right now. "Can we go back to the room now, Mr. Bonnefoy?"

Francis immediately shook her off. "You may go back by yourself, I will come back later."

"B-but—"

Evangeline wasn't stupid; she and Francis both knew it was an excellent opportunity for her to blackmail him. He helped his daughter up, whispering, "Don't tell your _Maman_."

"What's in it for me?"

He searched in his pocket and emptied the contents on her desk, looking at her imploringly. "Fifty cents and a pack of gum."

"Not good enough." But if she hadn't been so pissed about Melanie, she would've cared less and agreed. It wasn't like her dad really did anything too serious ever since the D.C. trip, in terms of sexual harassment, since her mom would without a doubt slaughter him and feed his remains to Flying Mint Bunny or something.

Ms. Stevens, having composed herself, came up to Francis angrily with all her prima donna fury. "What do you think you're doing, Mr. Bonnefoy? Please return to your own classroom and let me resume my class!"

Francis picked another rose from inside his sleeve (Evangeline swore that one day she'd take apart that shirt and see where the heck he stored the flowers) and gave it to the flustered Drama teacher as an apology. "_Je m'excuse, ma cher_." He threw a worried look at Evangeline before making his way to the door.

Evangeline called out after him, "I won't tell Mum, but only if I get the house to myself this afternoon. My friends and I are going to do a read-through of our play." She waved a stick of gum at him before pocketing the rest.

Francis pursed his lips and caught the dimes she tossed over in midair. "_Certainement, ma lapin._"

Needless to say, the French class was a lot quieter than it had been.

* * *

_5:21 P.M., in Evangeline's house…_

"I can't believe she still put me down as a character in the play," Evangeline fumed, smacking her dad's gum. "And I can't believe _you _deserted me when my dad came around."

Aloisa shrugged, her arms laden with textbooks. "Sorry."

Felicita Carriedo locked the door. "I can't believe your dad was the sub for French." She glanced at the scripts Aloisa was holding. "And I don't know why I'm here. I'm a tree in the play, I don't have any lines."

Aloisa followed Evangeline and Alec down the hall. "Don't worry about that, you did better than me in the auditions. Ms. Stevens is totally biased."

"Of course, being forty-three, single, and having taught at this school for fifteen years can make anyone biased," Alec added, fiddling with Adrian's scarf. God, he should wear one to school tomorrow, they were so adorable.

Felicita would say that Evangeline's house was around the same size as Aloisa's. The ceilings were ten feet away from the ground and rows after rows of paintings adorned the walls. Evangeline set her backpack on the dining table and flipped through her script. "I think I only have three or four lines…"

Alec surveyed the cluttered mess scattered around the kitchen counter. "_Maman_ must've been cooking again—wait, he left a note. _Gone to meeting with Alfred and Kiku, be back at six. Food is in the oven. _That's it, I'm not practicing here. And nobody touch the oven." Adrian quickly removed his hand from the oven handle.

"How about in here?" Mikhail suggested, opening a door. "There is a staircase that leads down…"

Evangeline switched on the side light, which feebly fizzed with a yellow glow. "That's only the basement. Why are you here, anyways?"

"I have a part in the play."

Aloisa gathered the scripts and went in, chuckling amusedly to herself. "Really?"

"Yes. She gave me the part of Oberon."

"_Really?_" Aloisa stopped smiling and the stack of scripts she was holding dropped to the steps and disappeared to the basement floor with a muffled thud. "Aw, damn!"

Evangeline held out a hand to stop Aloisa. "I'll go down first and turn on the main lights. You can trip and die if you don't know your way around here."

"I'm supposing that's an exaggeration," Felicita said.

Evangeline paused, then, "No. Not really."

She skipped down towards the basement until the darkness engulfed her. Besides the clank-clank her shoes were making on the metal staircase, there was no indication that anyone, or anything, could be in there. But soon the lights crackled to life and Evangeline gestured for them to follow.

The basement did not look like what Felicita would imagine a basement to look like: the floors were carpeted and the entire place reeked of newness and The Home Depot. There was a fitted chandelier in the center of the ceiling, nothing too fancy, but it was huge and lit up the entire place; bookshelves and cloth-covered furniture were lined up against the wall. A giant, lone clock hanging on the left wall ticked monotonously, with simple, black numbers printed neatly on its face.

Evangeline's files, the files that contained the Jeanne d'Arc letters that had scared her so much when she read it again, were lying on the table, untouched and resealed. She had almost forgotten she'd left them there. Evangeline covered them with the scripts in alarm and opened the one last one she picked up. She didn't dare to open _them_ again, at least not now.

"Wouldn't it be easier if you could turn on the lights before you came downstairs?" Adrian said.

She apprehensively scanned the script, her heart pounding but trying her best to sound casual, "Nah, the technician was being stupid and said that it was too difficult put a side switch. But I think he may be right. I don't remember the staircase being that far down…"

Alec was busy tangling Adrian's scarf around both of their necks. "You have a scarf too, Mikhail?"

He shrugged. "Aunt Katyusha gave this to me." Their aunts had sent their scarves in a little brown box last week. He remembered his папа had panicked and taken the package to the front lawn to smash it flat with a pipe when he saw the return address. It's not like Mikhail blamed Ivan, perhaps it really was necessary, but the neighbor from across the street gave him a weird look this morning when he walked to school.

Aloisa whipped out her cell phone and took another picture of Adrian and Alec. "That's a great pose, guys. But this play has Lysander with Hermia and Demetrius with Helena. A pity, but that's how it works."

Alec pulled away, leaving the scarf hanging loosely around Adrian. "Oh, right. Lysander gets to have all the fun with his Melanie. I bet when you volunteered she took it as a date offer."

"It's not my fault she—"

Evangeline whacked Alec upside the head. "Alright, just shut up! Hippolyta has a line on the first page, so I'll start off. _Res tempus valet quantum vendi potest_—"

Felicita cocked her head, reading her own script. "I thought she was supposed to begin with, _Four days will quickly steep themselves in night_, and so on."

"But it says 'Hippolyta' in fancy cursive here," she protested, pointing to a word.

Mikhail peered over Evangeline's shoulder. "That says _Hodiernus_. And that is not _Res tempus_, it is _Res tantum_."

Aloisa took the book from the blond. "What exactly are you reading?"

"Shakespeare."

"This is Latin." Aloisa patted the cover, causing clouds of dust to fly up. "And really old."

"Well, how do you know Shakespeare didn't write Latin?"

Aloisa checked the cover for a title, but found none. "This isn't even Ms. Stevens's book. Where did you get this?"

"On the ground along with the other scripts."

While the girls began arguing whether if Shakespeare studied Latin, Alec was whispering into the basement phone that had rang when Evangeline started to rattle on. "I don't think you can come home yet, Papa."

The phone squeaked, "_But why not? I've been doing nothing in Starbucks for three hours—_"

"We're, um," Alec wetted his lips, "figuring out some technical difficulties. Evangeline is having trouble reading the script, I think." He twirled the cord around his finger and wondered why his _Maman_ even thought about installing a phone set to the wall in the basement. Who was going to use it—okay, fine, he was using it right now. He gazed at the second hand of that huge clock silently travel around and around and around.

"_Surely she has forgotten about it, I'll explain to Arthur, he's about to come home anyways. They needed a French substitute, I speak French, they called me—"_

Evangeline slammed her palms on the table, a challenging glint in her eyes. "I can say it three times fast, Mikhail: _Res tempus wallet quantum vendi potest_, _Res tempus—_"

"It is _Res _tantum valet_ quantum vendi potest_," Mikhail replied testily.

"Fine, be that way. _Res_—"

"Guys! Why are we even trying to memorize this! Focus, focus! We need to get this over with because _I_ need to go home before my Vati kills me! Either that or my mom might get a panic attack…"

The receiver crackled, _"…what was that_?"

Alec laughed nervously, "Technical difficulties?"

"_May I come home now? It is past six." _

"Wait, I'll have to talk to Evangeline…who is right…here!" He lowered the phone and gaped at the group. They were standing around in shock, but he couldn't spot his sister. There was no way she could've gone upstairs without him noticing. "W-what—where's Evangeline?"

"_Alec…Alec?_"

Aloisa stuttered, "S-she…she disappeared. Like someone had erased her—ah!"

And with that little outburst, Alec watched Aloisa grow transparent until he could actually see through her. In panic, Felicita jumped on Aloisa, hoping that she could keep Aloisa from dissipating, but once she made contact, both girls vanished completely.

Adrian was frozen on the spot, watching his brother dematerialize in horror. Mikhail inspected his see-through hands with glassy eyes. "This is…"

Alec dropped the receiver and ran towards Adrian. "No! Wait!"

Adrian seemed to regain some sense took one step back, frantically yelling, "Get away—"

Alec lost his footing and crashed into Adrian, knocking him back onto his brother. Alec managed to grab Adrian's scarf right before Adrian fell onto Mikhail, but just as he touched the fabric, his eyes wandered to the minute hand on that ridiculously sized basement clock and saw it stop and _move backwards_. He wondered if he was dead, or in the process of dying, because there was absolutely no way that would happen unless he was delusional. It was as if they were moving through gelatin, falling so slowly they were almost suspended in midair; Alec was about to scream, but his voice seemed to have dried up. It didn't feel like he was the one evaporating, it was as if he was observing from above, seeing his own futile attempts to grasp onto Adrian and looking at the clock spin out of control and watching the three of them fade into nothingness…

The receiver was still swinging on its cord, exactly where Alec had left it, the Shakespeare novels and that strange Latin booklet scattered on the ground and the table. Once again, the basement was dead silent besides the tick-tick-tick coming from the erratic clock. The minute hand slowed to a halt and started to turn itself back to the correct time; then it moved one block: _6:13_.

* * *

_6:12 P.M., on the way to Evangeline's house…_

"That took a little longer than we'd expected, Arthur-san."

Arthur huffed, "Well, if Alfred didn't have to stop by and go to McDonalds—"

Alfred, currently decked out in one of his tight-fitting dresses, waved a fry at Arthur's face. As usual, his make-up refused to smear no matter what he ate. "Not cool, Iggy. This was necessary, I got hungry."

"I brought scones. Someday you're going to pop a button on your dress."

"I'm not going to kill myself with your cooking, and you just wish you had figure like me."

Arthur only sniffed. "My figure is ten times better than yours, but I don't need it because I'm not wearing women's clothing, am I? Don't tell me you got use to it."

Alfred strode ahead in his four-inch heels with Yukiko Karpusi, Kiku's daughter. "I've been dressing like this since I had Mikhail and Adrian. What do you think?"

Yukiko grinned back at Arthur, "I think you look pretty in a dress, too, England." In her arms were little gift boxes she had prepared for the teens. Outfitted in a yellow chiffon party dress Annelise Køhler had sent her this summer, she looked no older than six. _It's been a while since I saw them, they must have changed a lot…_

"Is everybody in Evangeline's house?"

"Think so," Alfred answered breezily. "Francis told us that they're practicing for a play, though I don't know if Adrian or Mikhail can act…well, maybe we can make them decent American food, Iggy probably left them some horror in the kitchen—"

"You call your food decent? Your kids are going to get diabetes at this rate—"

Yukiko beamed at the American, tittering, "My dad showed me how to make milopita, we can make that for dessert."

'That sounds fancy. What is it?"

"It's apple pastry, but it looks _really_ cool when it comes out of the oven. I think we should make three and give two to Miss Katyusha and Miss Natalia—"

Then Yukiko felt something inside her snap. She stopped in her path and stared at the packages in her hands. What was the matter with her…there was a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach. Perhaps it was from being around Arthur, she could sense little bits of magic like his ever since she became the Kansai district, but no, this felt different, like something was missing—

"What's wrong, Yukiko?" Alfred inclined his head and peered worriedly at her. "Did you get sick after eating Iggy's scon—"

"I-I…" The girl swallowed and hugged the gifts tighter. "They're gone."

Kiku hurried to his daughter and knelt by her side, startled. "Who's gone?"

She closed her eyes and frowned. "They were in the house before, I'm certain I felt that. But…they're not there anymore." Her eyes opened and she ran to the house, swiping her hand over the doorknob. The front door clicked open by itself and Yukiko dashed in. "The boys are gone!"

Kiku gripped his daughter's arm before she barreled downwards. "What is happening? Why—"

Yukiko wrenched away and led Arthur down the staircase to the basement. "Okaasan, they're gone! Their children are gone!"

Arthur skidded to a stop once he reached the bottom and picked up the Latin book on the ground. "This is my book…I thought I put all my spell books away…" He turned the page. "But this isn't a spell book, it's a reference on time traveling, it's not supposed to do anything…" He set it down and his eyes wandered fearfully to Yukiko. "You're right. I can't tell where my kids are. Do you think…but time traveling isn't possible! No one has ever accomplished something like this—"

She stared at Arthur. "This room is stained with traces of…you used to practice magic in here before you remodeled it, am I right?"

Arthur nodded, mortified. "But they're all gone now. I put them in these bookshelves years ago—"

"What is left of your magic is detectable, although very faint. It couldn't have been possible to do much with that, but…but I think this triggered it." Yukiko set her gifts on the table next to the scripts. She pulled the files out and showed them to England.

Alfred took one from her and examined it. "That's the info file we gave our kids. What's wrong with this—?"

"It's the same as my pin. Objects or information that stays with countries long enough are tainted with the owner's identity to some degree. And if Arthur had if before you gave it to your kids…but I-I don't exactly know how your children left, there's too little—"

Alfred dropped to his knees and shook Yukiko's shoulders in terror. "Where are my boys?"

Yukiko stood stiffly, frightened. "They're in this world, but in a different time period."

"_Where are they_?"

Her eyes bore into a spot on the carpet at something that wasn't there. She almost seemed to be thinking, straining to relate to the impossible.

"1960." Her lips quivered slightly. "But…I think they're separated."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I have never gotten this many reviews/alerts/favs in one chapter. I didn't know so many people were reading it…-cries- ;w; Thank you all so much for reading, and if you reviewed, reviewing. Now I must leave to cry you a river of happy tears. oTL You readers are as wonderful as Gilbird. **

**Oh my, Mikhail sure is popular on the polls. :3 On a completely different topic, I think I should work on the Christmas sidestory…or something. I'm sorry, this week and most likely next week has been and will be pretty depressing. I absolutely loathe being depressed, because then I'll turn into my friend, who is so pessimistic (and has no good reason for doing so, except that she has onfce stated that she likes to, which pisses me off) it makes me want to punch her sometimes.**

**All grammatical/sp errors and DM linked words will be corrected after publication. DM hates me and my computer. Seriously. Also, any mistranslations are by Google Translate. **

**Sidestory Note: -**'Have You Met Miss Jones?' takes place before CTD. The last scene is somewhere between post-CTD and pre-PTP. Hope that clears things up!  
-I am afraid to post my new sidestory, Paso Doble. Well, it was written during CTD but it's ¾ completed. It's…quite weird. I'll put it up once I am done and also if I am brave enough. Because Gilbert ballroom dancing is so eccentric, now that I look at it.

Mi scusi. Potete dirmi dove sono? [Italian]—Excuse me. Can you tell me where I am?  
Sei perso? [Italian]—You're lost?  
Sì ... la mia amica e non riesco a trovare il nostro custode ...[Italian]—Yes...my friend and I can't find our guardian...  
Non mi dica cosa fare, idiota! [Italian]—Don't tell me what to do, idiot!

**Notes: **-Adr/Ale pairing is currently established. I'm planning for other pairings as the story progresses.  
-1960!nations will be referred to with their respective country names (even if they don't know the kids know who they are…yet), while present!nations are referred by their human names.  
-The way Ivan and Alfred pronounce Mikhail's name is 'Mee-kha-EEL.' (Yes, I understand that it can be pronounced differently, but this version sounds adorably Russian, and it's important in this chapter. Kind of. By the way, the nickname version of 'Mikhail' is 'Misha.' SO CUTE! XD)  
-The photo(s) Adrian has in his wallet (the one with Alec and him) are from a mall photo booth.  
-I mutilated Ivan's beautiful Russian last name. BUT IT'S FOR THE GOOD OF HETALIA!  
-You are about to see some Yukiko and Iggy magic in this chapter.  
-I wrote way too much again. oTL Sorry for so many cliffhangers and messy descriptions, but it's the beginning of the story. Please bear with me. ;-;

**We've got three doujins lined up. Or so we think. Ahahahaha~ Comment here or on Jyro's profile (suggestions? Comments? Just go watch her on dA? XD). **

**Oh, and before I forget: there were a lot of people telling me that they were going to draw CTD/PTP characters and such. You guys are the best, I swear. Thank you so much (again) for offering! ;A; Hope you have fun and I can't wait to see them! X3**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. **

* * *

_November 28, 1960, Munich, 9:01 A.M... _

Aloisa lifted her head, her vision blurry. Even so, she could make out the shape of an unconscious Felicita lying beside her on the concrete. It felt like someone had cracked her skull open and stapled-gunned the wound back. She tossed her hair back and shook Felicita roughly. _Oh, please don't let her be dead, please wake up… _

"W-what is it?" The brunette scrambled to her feet frantically and staggered about woozily. "Where are we?"

The street they were on was sparsely littered with civilians, all dressed in furry winter coats and scarves; the children followed their mothers, puffing up a cloud of cold in their gloved hands. Students clad in crisp new uniforms and polished black shoes stared at the girls in shock when they passed by. There were some Christmas decorations wrapped around store signs and windows, but it still felt pretty dreary.

Aloisa placed one hand on her forehead and leaned against a lamppost. They were on a sidewalk in some city, but definitely not in California. Her eyes wandered to a sale sign painted on a grocery store window: _Bananen_, _59…_something…she couldn't read the last thing; it didn't look like a dollar sign or a cents symbol… _Okay, this is not cool, this is just a totally screwed up dream, or maybe my parents brought me to Universal Studios when I was sleeping and they're trying to surprise me—no, that's not possible, what the hell am I thinking… _

"That's German, so maybe there's a Multicultural Festival going on..." Felicita suggested, not very convinced herself. She followed Aloisa down the street fearfully. Aloisa was grateful that she didn't end up here alone, but she wasn't sure what help Felicita could be either (besides preventing her from certain insanity, of course).

Felicita gaped at the two new station wagons that drove by and tugged Aloisa's sleeve. "Something's not right, Aloisa."

"You think?" The blond pattered on nervously; she hadn't spotted anyone that seemed even remotely approachable. Everyone was frowning, their wind-swept faces appearing brittle and ashen through their knitted hats. She sighed and stopped at a coffee shop, or at least she thought it was a coffee shop. Aloisa could see people inside turning on lamps and sweeping up the shop. She was afraid to go inside, which was silly, she knew, but who knows what might happen. They were just two girls, after all…

Though Aloisa understood as much German as Mikhail did, she guessed the sign '_Geschlossen' _on the store window meant that it was closed, unless that language had really long words for short English words. Now she was sincerely regretting not going to German classes. The only German words she could remember at the moment were swear words she picked up from Onkel Gilbert.

Despite what the sign probably read, a man was sitting at a table outside the store, reading the newspaper in a way so that it covered his face. A cup of steaming coffee stood untouched on the side, along with a small wrapped gift box. Aloisa scrutinized the newspaper title; it was in Italian! She could read Italian; two years of Italian classes might actually pay off!

She tapped the man on the shoulder hesitantly. "_Mi scusi. Potete dirmi dove sono_?" Okay, she might've gotten some words wrong, but the guy responded. His fedora covered his eyes, but Aloisa thought that he might've been looking at her.

"_Sei perso_?" He folded the newspaper, revealing a cigarette dangling from his fingers. Aloisa tried to not scrunch up her nose; she and her Mama had always hated the smell.

"_Sì...la mia amica e non riesco a trovare il nostro custode..._" Aloisa answered, literally taking the entire sentence from her Italian II textbook.

The man seemed to ponder this, then, "You speak with a slight accent. Are you American? Come on, sit down."

Aloisa and Felicita sighed in relief as they took a seat. The blond put both hands on the table and asked, "Where are we?"

"Munich." The guy took one long, final drag on his cigarette before putting it out. "I'm sorry, I don't usually smoke. It's the stress getting to me."

"Oh, it's alright." Aloisa smiled, but then her mouth dropped open. "_Munich_? Did you say Munich? Like in Germany?"

"There's only one Munich in the world, unless you have one in America. And by the by, don't you mean West Germany?—oh, _bambina_, what's wrong?" He got up and wrapped his arms around Aloisa, whose head had plopped on the table in horror. "What's the matter?"

Felicita patted Aloisa's shoulder, though she was extremely wary herself by now. "We lost our chaperon. We're sort of visiting…from California. But what—"

"Is that so? Are you here for the Christmas market? I think it'll be a nice change, it's been a difficult time for everyone here." Then he blinked, startled. "You look like _fratello_," he whispered. "What is your—"

Felicita's heart pounded as she tried again, "What do you mean, 'West Germany'?"

The guy raised his eyebrows, still pretty shocked but trying to keep it in check. "I don't understand. There's a West Germany and East Germany. Munich is in West Germany—w-what did I say?"

Felicita jumped up and grasped Aloisa's chair. "That's impossible! There's only one Germany! H-hold it…" She reached for the newspaper; at the corner of the page were the words, _Lunedi_, _28 Novembre , 1960_. "Oh my god. Oh no, this is not happening. This is a joke, right? It's a joke!" She shook Aloisa's arms. "Please get up, Aloisa, this is really bad. I'm not kidding! You can be depressed all you want later, just take a look at this!"

Aloisa raised her head. "What is it?"

"Look here, oh my god, we've screwed up this time." She shoved the paper under Aloisa's nose. "Look at the date."

Slowly, her eyes widened and she shot up from her seat. "Okay. Okay. Don't panic, let me think... A-Ah—Mister, we'd very much appreciate it if you could bring us to the airport. Is the airport far from here? Or maybe you can get us a taxi or something…?" But how would she pay for it? All she had in her wallet were modern money, her ID and license, and that Mikhail-made hack credit card, and she was pretty sure that wouldn't be of any use.

The man shook his head and picked up his package. He could've been someone's lover, hanging out in a café before bringing his girlfriend her Christmas present. "No need. Come along with me. My…my friend can help you find your guardian. Is that alright with you two?"

Aloisa stuttered, "Oh, thank you, but we don't want to be a burden—"

He held up his hand. "I can't leave you two here. I'm going to pay a visit to him anyways. If he refuses…" He paused and continued sadly, "I'll think of something, I've got nothing to do anyways."

With that said, he removed his fedora and tucked it under his arm, letting a curl on the left side of his head spring out. There was a small, white bandage partly concealed behind light brown bangs. Warm chocolate brown eyes smiled at Aloisa and Felicita, though the man looked as if he hadn't slept in ages. "You can call me Feliciano. What are your names?"

And all the girls could do at that moment was to not collapse or scream at how absurd the whole situation was.

* * *

_November 28, 1960, Manhattan, New York, 9:14 A.M… _

"And what will he be having?"

"I will ask him when he wakes up. Thank you."

"Of course, darling."

Adrian rubbed his eyes and opened them blearily; his cheek was stinging as if a dog had torn a chunk of flesh off. "W-what's going on?"

Mikhail reclined back against his seat in relief. "Oh man, I thought you were dead."

"Where are we?" His eyes gradually adjusted to the bright lights and soon heard Christmas music playing on hidden speakers; they were inside an old fashion diner, window seat. It was warm and toasty inside, though frost glazed the window panes outside.

"We woke up over there." Mikhail pointed across the street to a park. Snowflakes lightly drifted down like feathers and children in puffy winter coats were hopping around, trying to catch a few on their tongues. "You did not wake up, so I dragged you in here. I also apologize for hitting you."

Adrian's hand flew up protectively to his face. "You slapped me?"

Mikhail shrugged. "You didn't wake up."

"What did you use, a meat tenderizer—"

The doors of the diner opened and blew in a teenage couple and a blond man in a hat. The girl laughed and clung on to her boyfriend, chattering excitedly about the snow and Christmas; the guy removed his scarf and wrapped it around her, earning a shy peck on the cheek. The other man took his seat on a booth but stared at the twins for a while. Adrian felt around his own neck but could not find Aunt Natalia's scarf. _Alec must've taken it when we…when we what? Disappeared? _

Mikhail had gotten up to fetch the newspaper from the rack. He tapped the date and the title several times. "_Monday, November 28, 1960. 'President-elect John F. Kennedy…'_" He ogled at the picture for a moment. "This is a picture of John F. Kennedy."

"There's another one?"

"_No_—"

The waitress came back and slid a cup of coffee to Mikhail and a small bowl of soup to Adrian. "On the house, boys. It's positively freezing out there."

Mikhail gave her a gracious smile. "Thank you, Clara." The young woman grinned and moved to another table.

"How do you know her name?" Adrian took tiny sips of his soup, hoping that it wasn't spiked, because he didn't think anyone would be nice enough to give two ragged teenagers-possibly-delinquents free food. He wondered if they looked like homeless people or something.

"Her name tag." Mikhail gulped down his coffee. "This is 1960. We are in the year 1960 in a diner in Manhattan."

Adrian's soup went down the wrong way and he coughed violently. "_Huh_?"

"Were you not listening at all? It must have happened when Evangeline read that Latin booklet. My watch has stopped working. Or maybe it is out of batteries."

"H-how can we be in Manhattan? Okay, I can believe that part, but not the 1960s part—"

"Adrian, look around. We came to New York in eighth grade for a field trip. The guide brought us to this park and said that this building used to be a diner before it turned into Starbucks in 1982. We have _bought_ coffee from this Starbucks, is your memory so short?"

"Well, now that you mention it…" It did look sort of familiar outside; there was that park bench he saw last time, except it had a 'Wet Paint' sign hanging on it. And the people…okay, he believed Mikhail, the people dressed seriously vintage, complete with beehive hairdo and clothes that looked as if they'd stole them from the costume wardrobe of _Back to the Future _or _Grease_.

"What should we do then?"

"Maybe my cell phone can work here. I will call Aloisa." He took his cell out of his jeans and flipped through the selections. Adrian rummaged through his own pockets and took out his wallet, thankful that at least they had their wallets and cell phone, though it might be useless. There was some comfort in having present-time items in their possession.

"I got some dollar bills, a Starbucks gift card, my license, and a photo of me and Ale—ah…uh…" He quickly stuffed the last one back into its pocket. Luckily, Mikhail didn't notice or seem to care. But the man at the booth was still looking at them with one hand on his chin.

He exhaled tiredly. "Mikhail, it's 1960. Rotary dial phones have just been introduced, there's no way cell phones can work. Put it away, people will look at you funny—hey, what are you doing?"

The staring man had come to their table and plucked the cell phone out of Mikhail's hands to examine it. Adrian rose to his feet indignantly. "Give that back to my brother!"

"And what is this? A voice recorder?" the man asked, his voice oddly familiar. He removed his hat and rested it on their table, hissing in their faces, "Did Braginski send you?"

Cold blue eyes gazed steadily at Adrian, glinting fiercely behind glasses frames. Adrian fell back on his seat and gaped at the blond. "M-mo—_ugh_!"

Before Adrian could say anything, Mikhail had socked him in the stomach. If they mentioned anything, he had the feeling that the timeline would be screwed and it'd be their fault. "Please return my school project, Mister."

America's eyes narrowed suspiciously as he played around with the touch screen. "School project?"

Mikhail nodded. "I made it myself." He glanced at America warily, hoping he would buy it and leave.

"What's your name, boy?"

Mikhail gulped. "This is my brother Adrian, and I'm Mikha—I mean, Michael." It wouldn't do for him to pronounce his name the way it should be said, since his mom flared up at the mere mention of Braginski. He didn't think saying it in an accent would give him brownie points either. _1960…is around the beginning of the Cold War, is it not?_

America slid into the booth and tapped his fingers on the table. He returned Mikhail's cell phone, but he was gawking at Adrian. _Not good, not good, why is he sitting down, why isn't he leaving? _"What did you say your name was again?"

Adrian gulped, one arm around his tummy where Mikhail had punched; he knew what would happen if he said the wrong thing. The last time he tried to hide a bad test score from his mom was in third grade, and even then he'd had his little elementary school ass blow to tidbits. "Adrian. Adrian Br…uh…rooks. Adrian Brooks. Yeah."

America took one last stare at the twins, then relaxed visibly. He laughed, "Okay then. Sorry 'bout scaring you two like that, I was just making sure. Tell you what: I'll pay for anything on the menu as an apology. What do you boys want?"

This bright, sociable demeanor was quite a change from his previous somber expression, but neither boy questioned it. Mikhail approached with another inquiry, slightly more urgent this time, "There is no need for that. What do you mean you were 'just making sure'?"

America knocked him playfully on the forehead, reminding him terribly of his mother, and replied, "Don't you know why your school and everywhere else are having these bomb drills?"

"I-I guess so…?"

America huffed. "Maybe you're too young to understand. But man, shouldn't you be in high school right now? Don't tell me you're cutting class!"

The blond shook his head. "No, we are not from here. We…" He wetted his lips, unsure of what to tell and what not to tell. "…we are visiting from California. But we can't find our parents. But what is it about the bomb drills?"

"Really now?" America's eyes twinkled, interested. "Two boys lost in New York in a diner. Well then, I'll have to take you to your parents, wouldn't I?"

_Shit. _"That's not necessary—"

America proceeded to pull both Mikhail and Adrian up with both arms and led them outside, shouting, "Bye, Clara! See you tomorrow!"

The waitress smiled. "Goodbye, Mr. Jones!" She winked at the boys. "Goodbye, darlings!"

The late autumn wind whipped brutally against the boys, both extremely underdressed for the weather and somewhat terrified. "You don't have to—"

America only chortled, "I do have to. It's part of my job of being a hero! Here, Adrian, take my scarf. You're going to freeze to death by the time we finish looking around. You can call me Alfred, by the way."

Adrian wondered if his mom was used to doing this, and by 'this' he meant making friends with suspicious teens. Snow finally stopped falling, though it had accumulated a great deal long ago. This felt strange: America holding their hands and sauntering down streets filled with Christmas lights and such. They'd done this before with their parents when they were little; Alfred and Ivan once took them to a Christmas market in France when they were in elementary school. Honestly, the teens forgot where exactly in France, but they remembered that it was snowing.

* * *

_There were lights hung all around the stalls and Christmas trees planted strategically in the spaces between stalls for tourists and their photo-taking needs. But the kids paid little attention to that, for they were busy checking out numerous stalls. Adrian was running around like crazy, swinging his newly bought teddy bear in the air like it was a plane. _

_Mikhail beamed at his mother, pointing to several different pastries arranged on the table. "Can I have a cookie?"_

_Allie grinned at her son and paid the lady. "Sure."_

_Ivan leaned it. "Perhaps your French has deteriorated since the last meeting."_

_His wife bristled, a chocolate cookie dangling from her lips. "That's nonsense. But at least I'll have some comfort in knowing that _your_ French is worse than mine. Speaking of languages, Mikhail is talking like you now. Hell, he's got your accent. You better teach him how to speak English right or I'll—" _

_Ivan smirked, ignoring her last comment. "Would you like to hear my French?"_

_Allie chomped her cookie right in Ivan's face and followed her sons. "No." But she turned around, as if propelled by a last minute decision. "Not now."_

* * *

Okay, forget about the snow and precious childhood memories. The thing they seriously remembered the most was their mom's outfit. They had a vague image, but Adrian was sure that it had been a short hooded red dress with white furry things around the hems, and brown boots that went up all the way to her mid thigh. Sort of like a female Santa costume, but a lot less kid-friendly.

"What are you two thinking about?"

Adrian thought he would have had a heart attack. "N-nothing."

America cocked his head. "Oh. Okay. You kinda zoned out there for a second—what is it, Michael?"

Mikhail stopped poking America and looked straight up at him. This was his mother's face, yet he couldn't say anything, lest get themselves in bigger trouble. "About the bomb drills…"

"What about them?" He hummed a quick tune absently as they walked on, peering into alleys and different shops, looking for the boys' 'parents.'

"What are they for?"

"You don't know?"

"N-no…?"

America sighed and leaned in, whispering, "Okay. We are not getting along with Russia as of late. My boss might not think it's a real war, but at least some people in the army know what they're doing. The drills are preparation, just in case Russia decides to destroy the universe."

"Then who's Braginski—?"

America laughed quietly, puffing out wisps of white. Strangely, the streets had cleared, save for two or three cars passing by, though civilians should be milling around the sidewalk at this time. America didn't notice though, since all of his attention were focused on Adrian. "Your brother looks like him, I thought maybe he might be related. But that's impossible, who'd ever want to have a kid with Braginski?" He practically spat out the last word.

Adrian cracked a weak smile for the sake of his mom, who was observing them out of the corner of his eyes. "Haha, I guess you're right. B-but who exactly is Braginski?" The weather was enough to freeze Adrian; despite wearing America's scarf, he did only have on jeans and short-sleeves.

The blond actually paused to contemplate this. "He's…the country's enemy, just as I am theirs. I'll tell you two later, if we get a chance. But don't tell me I didn't warn—"

Adrian pressed on, "Then who are _you_—_woah_, what are you doing?" The boys fell backwards when the American suddenly whipped around with his gun poised. "Where did you get that?"

America pointed his gun at an invisible target and muttered under his breath, "I let my guard down. Get down." He glared at the boys, a brief, hard stare. "Well?"

Adrian and Mikhail did so, for fear that America would inexplicably turn his gun on them. The blond seemed to be concentrating on a particular spot beyond the park; he was about to shoot (the kids heard the click of the trigger), but he hesitated and glanced at the boys shivering on the iced sidewalk. A rustling noise from a nearby tree made the American jump in alarm; without warning, America unwillingly slung the twins on his shoulders as if they weighed no more than pillows and began sprinting in the opposite direction.

If Adrian wasn't scared before, he certainly was now. "_Let me down!_ What the hell are you doing? Where are we going—"

America continued fleeing down the street in panic. "I'm saving your life, so zip it!"

"What do you mean—w-wha…what is it?" Adrian followed where Mikhail was pointing and silently directed his gaze over there. Beyond sidewalk trees and benches, he thought he could make out the shape and face of someone…

As they moved away faster and faster, Adrian saw who his mom had been running from: tall, immense, violet eyed with platinum bangs, armed with a pipe which he was lightly twirling with one hand. He was the one who listened to Alfred's every single complaint with a sincere smile and accompanied him to every McDonald's restaurant they happened to drive past…

America reached the corner of the street with a sharp turn, and the bewildered face of Ivan Braginski vanished behind a building.

* * *

_7:23 P.M., November 28, present, Evangeline's house, basement…_

"So you're saying my daughter is missing in an alternate universe, is that right, England?"

Ludwig leaned on the table, his arms crossed and brows furrowed in either disbelief or confusion, or both. Feliciano was at his side, looking worriedly from one nation to another; today he dressed simply in jeans and a white button up shirt, as was all the other countries. Antonio was doing his best to hold a rabid Lovino from tearing Arthur's limbs off, comforting him in Spanish and being rapidly shot down each time with furious, nearly unintelligible Italian.

Arthur's hands covered his face, hiding his frantic expression. Where was Francis? He had said he would drive Evangeline and Alec home from school—okay, maybe not Alec, since he'd be with Adrian—but it was almost seven thirty with no sign of the Frenchman showing up.

Yukiko explained, "Not in another world. They're here, but in another year."

Kiku's finger tapped his lips lightly; they were supposed to return to Japan this evening, but they couldn't possibly go when things were in this state. He would need to call Heracles later… One thing he couldn't wrap his mind around was how Yukiko knew the location of the kids. Even he didn't know, and he was sure that Heracles wasn't familiar with magic…or was he?

Alfred shrugged on his bomber jacket and laced his boots, stuffing his dress into his bag. He knew it was a good idea to bring spare clothing, even if Iggy thought it was weird. He could actually sense something major was about to happen (what a shocker), and he didn't think it would be appropriate to strut around in heels in their current situation. He'd called Ivan over thirty minutes ago, but the man had not appeared.

As if on cue, Ivan stomped down the stairs in a hurry, his hair slightly mussed and face paler than usual. Alfred placed his hands on his waist impatiently; he didn't mean to be rude, but he was getting panicky. "Where have you been—"

"Detained," he said and pressed his lips on Alfred's forehead in an attempt to appease the American. Arthur pretended to gag and Feliciano clasped his hands together in admiration, despite how awful he was feeling. "I was delayed by someone—"

A voice rang out from the first floor, "Big brother! I know you're in here!"

All the nations froze as Natalia stuck her head inside the room and slid down the stair railings. Her usual blue dress and white apron were replaced by a red-and-green ensemble that made her even more intimidating. She landed nimbly on the bottom steps and adjusted the red ribbons tied into her hair. "Hello, America."

Alfred stiffened; she was being unnaturally courteous, since he handed seen any dangerous weaponry yet, which meant she must have something worse in mind. "Good to see you, Belarus." He scanned her outfit, itching to kick Ivan (who was using Alfred as a barrier) back to his feet to face his sister like a man for once. "Nice dress. So what brings you to California…again?"

"It is the holiday season. My boss gave me a week off," she said briefly. "I meant to show this to Adrian. He said he liked Christmas colors when we talked on the phone." (In reality, at that time Adrian was about to drop unconscious due to fright and just blabbered whatever came into his mind.)

Yukiko raced to wrap herself around Natalia's legs, in spite of her mother's obvious horror. How Yukiko was unable to see Natalia the way everyone else did will forever remain a mystery to Kiku. "Hello, Miss Natalia!"

Natalia lowered her lashes and patted Yukiko's hair. "Where are Mikhail and Adrian?" she brusquely asked Alfred.

Lovino answered spitefully, "England sent them to 1960."

"_I_ didn't do it—!"

"Now, now, Lovi—"

"_Non mi dica cosa fare, idio—"_

Natalia blinked, pivoting on her heel to face the Italian. "You are the one my ex-assistant met." She inclined her chin a quarter of a centimeter. "I apologize. I had meant for her to go to my brother's house. She had apparently read the incorrect address."

Lovino scowled, though under normal circumstances he would've freaked out if Natalia talked to him. "What are you saying?"

"Lisa. Lisa Berns." The girl redid her hair ribbons nonchalantly. "She was an excellent messenger when she was younger. But…" Natalia hesitated, as if in disappointment. "…humans wear out so quickly. It seems that the underworld has taken a toll on her mind—"

"_Are you kidding me?_" Lovino struggled with renewed fervor in Antonio's hold, his face turning redder and redder as he hit the man holding him captive repeatedly. "'_Has taken a toll on her mind? _Don't give me that bullshit, she's fucking lost her head! I should've known you sent that monster to kill my daughter—"

Lovino's palm ended up crushing Antonio's left cheek and whatever the hell the Spaniard was originally saying became gibberish. "Th'rsh n' ne'd for shwea'ng, Lobi—_pfft_—jush c'alm dow—"

Natalia narrowed her eyes as the previous information registered in her head. "1960?"

Arthur's fingers drummed the bookshelves, bringing up a tiny storm of dust particles. There was no use waiting for Francis, he wouldn't know what to do either. He wanted to yell for the Italian to cease jumping on the floorboards; the basement might've been remodeled, but the motion was making the furniture shake. He trained his gaze on the ratty old cloth covering that century-old mirror frame, wishing there was some magical portal they could open up to get the kids back—wait a minute—

Francis then crashed inside the basement and momentarily killed Arthur's train of thoughts. His blond locks were wild in disarray, panting hard like he'd been running. "I'm…I'm home…_mon che_—"

"Where have you been? I called your number ten million times—"

Francis gave a few short puffs before straightening himself. "My cell phone ran out of batteries. And as to where I've been, I was in Starbucks, but I have a very good reason for that—"

"1960…" Natalia repeated offside. "Nineteen… Sixty…" It was then her expression became morbidly distorted as her nails dug into Arthur's shoulders. "_Bring them back now._"

'A-alright, alright. I think I know how…" He grabbed a fistful of the old fabric and tore it off, revealing a scarred wooden mirror frame. Alfred carelessly brought it to the center of the room and sat in the 'O' shape structure like it was a swing.

"What's this, Iggy?"

Arthur sighed. "If you want the ghost of Anne Boleyn to come after you, go ahead and sit on it a little longer."

Alfred immediately scrambled off, dusting off his pants. "Jesus, Iggy, tell me that earlier, won't you?"

Francis ran his fingers along the deep mahogany woodwork. "This was made in France."

Arthur didn't retaliate with some smart response, but nodded solemnly. "She brought the mirror to England with her. As you all know, she was, um, beheaded by King Henry the VIII, and I don't think she's ever forgiven the world for her death." He went on, despite acknowledging Alfred's look of absolute terror. "She smashed the mirror a few days before she was sent to the Tower of London. Oh, come on, America, I was joking about the ghost. If she even had a ghost then it'd be in London. Anyways, I was thinking we can use it as a portal or something, since I've used it before to summon—uh…never mind. I think we can use this to get to the kids, but I'm not sure how exactly…"

Yukiko touched the mirror frame warily and elicited a sudden crackle of bright light. Alfred shrieked and Arthur's eyes shot up. "What was that?"

She shook her head, her mouth slightly open in horror. "I-I don't know—"

"Do it again."

Yukiko did so, and this time she rested her hand gently on the mirror frame; a mist of white light began to fill the space where the mirror should've been. It reached halfway before it stopped and started to ebb away. "I think…I think it wants us to go inside."

Alfred had scrambled onto Ivan's shoulders and was peering above his head, much to the displeasure of Natalia. "_What_ wants us to go inside?"

The white light was receding again, faster and faster. Arthur slammed his own hand on the other side of the frame and the empty mirror space immediately became completely filled. Lovino screamed, "You want us to go through that? I bet you don't even know where it leads to, bas—"

But Ivan, eager to evade Natalia, barreled right into the mirror space with Alfred on his back. "I volunteer to go first!"

Both of Arthur's hands were firmly locked on the mirror frame; he didn't think Yukiko could hold it long enough. If the portal closed while Russia and America were still halfway through…he wouldn't think about that for now, but it might have something to do with severe mutation and bodily dislocation. "America, get off of Russia!"

Alfred panicked, and being the idiot he was, he latched on Ivan even tighter. "Commie bastard, don't bring me in there—_AGHH_!"

Yukiko strained as she felt a sliver of electricity run up her spine when Ivan arm went across. "One at a time!" she shouted. The two were moving too slowly inside; it was as if the barrier was semi-solid.

Natalia leaped madly for her brother, her mouth twisted in a feral smile. "Big brother! Wait for me!"

She crashed into Ivan's back, and the motion alone was enough to propel the three of them some more into the portal, as easy as anything. The moment Natalia went through the frame somehow made a burst of searing white line reach out and cut Yukiko's palm. She released her hold on the wood, clutching her hand and mewling in pain. Kiku rushed to her side, his eyes wide in shock, staring at the red, jagged mark on her hand.

Arthur hadn't been touched, since he had more experience and a higher endurance, but he guessed it was only a matter of time before he was hurt, especially when there was just one person keeping the barrier up. Three people going through the portal had slowed down the process, though Ivan and America were already inside. He was almost certain that if the light disappeared it would slice off half of Natalia's body, not that he was complaining, but that would make things overly complicated. "Germany!" he yelled. "Kick them in!"

"Huh?"

"_Just do it!"_

"But what if—"

Feliciano pushed a startled Ludwig aside and marched in with a chair. "Ludwig! Really!" Not willing to get in any sort of contact with Natalia, he swung the chair and sent all three nations careening into who-knows-where.

Instantly, the remaining white light shot out a tremendous amount of light towards the ceiling and broke the basement light bulbs, leaving six nations in utter darkness. Even Lovino fell silent; they could hear the bulb shards clatter like rain on the floor and smell burning wood.

Yukiko's hand was turning numb. "…I think we broke it."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews/favs/alerts! X3 I wish I could shower you people with cookies, but...I just made around 81 for school and iced them (so now they look even worse, icing is the hardest thing in the world) and I do not ever want to see those cookies in my house. Ever. Again. So I'm going to give them to teachers and friends and pray they don't throw up. oTL **

**Please bear with me on time differences (but I think it's alright here). France is ahead of UK by one hour, so the phone call time should be about right. I hope. **

**Mistranslations are by Google Translate. (FFFFF I KNOW THE FRENCH MUST BE HORRIBLE. SORRY FOR THE MORTIFYING FRENCH YOU CANNOT UNSEE. Just pretend, people. Use your imaginations. oTL) **

**Sp/grammatical errors and DM linked words will be fixed after publication. STOP LINKING WORDS AND RE-EDITING MY EDITS, DM! D8**

Bonjour, ma cher. Avons-nous déjà rencontrés? [French]—Good morning, my dear. Have we met before?  
Ma frère est parti à cause de moi, alors je vais être le seul à le trouver! Mais je ne veux pas de votre aide, pas plus. [French]— My brother is gone because of me, so I'm going to be the one to find him! But I don't want your help, not anymore.

**Note: Fifteen Soviet republics made up USSR; the characters will be referred to by their respective republic-now-country name, so we don't get confused. **

**Note: **-And no, there was no CND demonstration in 1960 (at least that's what Wiki said). Pretend there is.  
-New character bio might be updated in the next chapter.  
-New 1960!character of some significance: James Chase  
-Though I used to be a USUK shipper, it pains me to write USUK in PTP. I did my best. XD  
-Pst. Remember in CTD I mentioned that Norway could also channel his economic powers to heal? He's gonna show up. :3  
-I hope I got the newspaper date outline right. oTL

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. **

* * *

_November 28, 1960, Strasbourg, France, 9:01 A.M…_

Evangeline hated feeling sick to her stomach, especially when the stinging pain was the side effect from taste-testing her mother's scones or crumpets or whatever it was he made. Now she was getting that sickish feeling in her tummy, except she thought it was from hunger, not food poisoning.

Her eyes slowly became accustomed to the sunlight, which quickly vanished behind heavy clouds bringing either snow or rain. She was on someone's doorstep, leaning against the front door; by the looks of it, it must be someone rich, for they had their own private front lawn with enough space for birdbaths, a swing, and plenty of rosebushes. Beyond the yard she could spot a city glowing with Christmas lights and bustling with commotion.

Evangeline's stomach gave another throb; it sucked being hungry. If she was at home she could whip up something simple…but she wasn't at home. Where exactly was she? There weren't street addresses or last names on the mailbox. Forget pondering about where she was; how the hell did she even get here in the first place? Evangeline figured she could walk home, since she couldn't have gone too far, though she wondered how long she could slump on the doorstep before someone opened the door.

A kid's bike rang and he pedaled across the front lawn, throwing a wad of newspaper right in Evangeline's lap. The boy seemed shocked to have hit someone, and hurriedly shouted an unintelligible apology.

Evangeline waved hesitantly. "It's okay!" she called. "I caught it!"

And the little boy gave her another weird stare before he raced off on his bike. The girl cocked her head and opened the paper; the kid had on a ratty brown hat and trousers that a storybook character would've worn. She scanned the words briefly. French news. But the pictures weren't in color, and the date was funny. _28_ _Novembre_. Wasn't that yesterday? And the year behind it…1960.

1960.

She chucked the paper behind a rosebush and breathed hard. 1960. She was in 1960. She vanished after reading that book, she remembered now. Evangeline buried her face with her hands and moaned; this was not cool, she should've listened to all the magic her mother rattled on about. Even Flying Mint Bunny couldn't save her, or Alec, or any of her friends, now.

Suddenly, the door flew open and Evangeline fell on her back with a thud, her head landing on somebody's shoes. Evangeline yelped in pain as she scrambled up, one hand on the back of her head.

"_Bonjour, ma cher_," the man said smoothly, though he, too, seemed mildly surprised. Nonetheless, he had put on the most charming smile he could muster and flashed his teeth at Evangeline. "_Avons-nous déjà rencontrés_?"

Evangeline was prepared to either run away or apologize, but when she turned around, her mouth dropped at the sight of Francis Bonnefoy. All her worries forgotten, she instantly flared up and yelled at her dad, "_I-I knew it!_ You're trying to get back at me for making you stay in Starbucks, aren't you? Well, I'm not buying it! You're going to bring me home and I'm not letting you off this easily! I'm going to tell Mum and I'm going to make sure he stuffs his scones down your throat—wait…what's that on your arm?"

Around France's left wrist were poorly wrapped bandages partially darkened with dried blood. The man's expression was a cross between confusion and alarm as he gingerly touched Evangeline's face.

"_Angleterre_…" he whispered faintly. Then he seemed to have gathered himself and spoke to Evangeline in a thick accent. "What is your name, _ma belle_?"

Something was wrong. Her dad wasn't acting, and that wound certainly wasn't fake. What if she really was in 1960…? "My name? But you know my name…don't you?"

He chuckled nervously, bringing his good hand to his forehead. "I must have drunk too much last night, I'm seeing _Angleterre_ everywhere. You're not really there, and I'm just talking to myself, aren't I? I am going back inside…"

Okay, she believed she was in the past now. There was no way her dad can keep ruses up for this long without snickering. Evangeline slipped through the crack of France's door as he was closing it. "Mister, I'm really here."

She gave a small jolt once she saw the room: worn clothes were hanging on sofas and ripped letters were strewn on the floor; used plates were piled on top of each other, accompanied with empty wine bottles littered here and there. A hobo could've sat on the armchair and blended in; it didn't look like the owner would attempt to clean anytime soon. _So this is why Mum gets pissed at Dad… _

France collapsed on his couch and groaned. "What is it? Who sent you here? I am not in the mood to deal with political matters. Please…just leave—"

"Mister, I need your help. I need to find my brother, but I don't know where he is, so I was hoping—"

France held up his hand and replied bitterly, "No. I apologize, but I don't have time to deal with tourists—"

Evangeline bristled and glared at her dad—no, he wasn't her dad yet. This was France; he was just a country, nothing more. "_Ma_ _frère est parti à cause de moi, alors je vais être le seul à le trouver!_" She thought the vein on her forehead jumped a little like Aloisa (which would've been quite funny and she would've laughed if she wasn't so angry). _Deep breaths. Deep breaths. You can go to town and ask around. You don't need dad's help. "Mais je ne veux pas de votre aide, pas plus_."

She spun on her heels, her cheeks red with fury. But France grabbed her arm and pulled her back, his eyes wide with realization. "You speak French?"

She jerked away. "I _know_ French. I don't speak it."

"I…" He coughed several times, and continued, flustered, "I would like to know your name."

She narrowed her eyes warily. _Any human illness or injury a nation has means that their economy has been damaged_, Yukiko had said when they were in D.C. _However, the severity of the symptoms will vary. _"Evan," she told him. "Evan Brown."

"Very well. My name is Francis Bonnefoy. I will help you find your brother—" France winced, glaring at his wound. "I'm sorry, let me take care of this first—"

France might be a jerk during this time period, she knew, but she couldn't help but feel sorry for him. Evangeline sighed. "Just sit there, Mister. I'll do it for you." She went off and opened a cabinet.

The man stuttered, "The bandages are in the—how did you find it?"

Evangeline returned with a first aid kit and opened it. Her Mum often hurt himself when he was brewing one of his recipes, so her dad had decided to put the first aid kit in one place, near the kitchen. She figured France would've had the same idea. "Where else could it be?" she muttered.

Evangeline knelt and carefully peeled the bandages off. It couldn't have been too difficult to wrap this type of injury, but it seemed like France had a hard time doing it himself. The last of the linen came off and Evangeline covered her mouth in horror. Extending from the man's wrist was a five inch long gash held together with stitches; a thin film of old blood caked the wound. France's expression was blank as he watched Evangeline's reaction.

"W-what happened…?"

France raised an eyebrow. "Accident."

Evangeline shook her head. "This is no accident. You need to go to a doctor—" She paused. France didn't need to go to a doctor. The gash would remain until the French economic and political condition improved. She silently cleaned around the cut and rewrapped it with new linen.

France lowered his eyes. "I should tell you that this doesn't normally hurt." He patted the bandages, satisfied. He did not press Evangeline on about his gash. "It starts bleeding only at certain times…"

"I understand," Evangeline said tonelessly. She glanced at the clock: 9:42. She knew he wasn't her dad yet, and that France could care less about her, but her head was spinning after seeing that wound; that, combined with her stomach, which refused to stop growling. "Have you eaten yet?"

The man stared at her. "No, but—"

This was an excellent opportunity for her to get a bite to eat as well! She pushed the image of his gash from her mind and stood up, not caring if she was acting too bold. "I'll make you breakfast."

France followed her into the kitchen worriedly. "You don't have to—"

Evangeline rolled up her sleeves. "I know I don't have to. Might as well as long as I'm here. Nice kitchen." She was relieved that France's kitchen was neat and clean. At least her dad always had the good sense to keep his own cookware in shape.

France wasn't convinced, for apparently thinking her cooking skills could match England's in taste. "Are you sure you can cook—"

Evangeline rolled her eyes and opened the fridge. "My dad and I are the only ones allowed in the kitchen. If I let my Mum in he'll make a scone monster pop out of the oven." She brought out a baguette and threw it at France. "Mister, don't refrigerate bread if you didn't wrap it. They'll get moldy."

"Do you not mean '_she'll_ make a scone m—'?"

"That's what I said," she answered quickly. That was a slip, one mistake and counting. "Do you have fruits? Like oranges or grapes? Oh, and by the way, I'm not going to make scones, so you don't have to worry."

France gaped at Evangeline, who was expertly maneuvering around his kitchen like she'd been cooking in it for years. "Shouldn't we be looking for your—"

"Not yet." She carried out a carton of milk and set it on the counter. "You drink coffee, right?" She didn't give the man time to answer. Forget about acting like a stranger, she was too hungry to care for now. Her phone was buried deep inside her jacket pocket; it vibrated once or twice, but Evangeline took no notice. "Do you have tea? I'll make tea. Where do you put the fruits—I found them, never mind."

And France, unable to bring himself to stop Evangeline, wordlessly observed this girl slice strawberries, wondering why being around her felt strangely familiar. He had no idea who she was, or why she seemed to know where everything was in his house, but he accepted it for the moment. Perhaps this 'Evan' was here for a reason, just as his dear Jeanne was, he just didn't know why…

* * *

_November 28, 1960, Trafalgar Square, London, 9:01 A.M…_

Alec woke up to the sound of trickling water and pigeons cooing. In fact, when he sat up, several fluffy birds gathered around him and stared at the boy with their beady little eyes. Tightly clutched between his fingers was Adrian's scarf, somewhat damp with fountain water—wait…fountain water?

He turned around and gazed past the rush of water, his eyes heavy with sleep. Was he dead? Beyond the fountain was a great whitish building that looked like the result of the Capitol and the Parthenon mashed together. He knew where he was; this was Trafalgar Square, he'd liked to hang out with his old friends here when he still lived in London…in London.

Alec rapidly fished his cell phone out of his pocket and turned it on. How was he going to explain this to his parents? Maybe location-shifting or whatever he did was normal in the world of nations, he just needed to calm down and call Evangeline. The phone made a little ringing sound, but he only received Evangeline's fake, cheery voice telling him to leave a message after the beep.

His hand twitched as he placed his phone back; Evangeline had never missed a call. So he was lost in England with no good explanation without Adrian or his sister. He was considering that he might as well go to a mall and wait there like a lost kid until someone picked up the phone when a flyer hit him smack dab in the face. Adrian peeled the paper off and read between its many peace symbols and names: _Attend CND demonstration in Trafalgar Square on December…_his eyes scanned over the page until he saw what he thought was a typo; there, in fat, square font, were the numbers, _1960. _

"Hey! Over here!"

Alec raised his head at the teenage boy running towards him, who looked probably a year or two older than him. His sandy blond hair was the same length as Adrian, and he was just about as tall. He had a captivating face, though it was marred by an annoyed expression, as if he thought he had better things to do than sprinting after runaway flyers; he was dressed in a typical mean, popular boy outfit, stylish hat and all. In fact, he was the type of boy that Alec might've flirted with if he wasn't so distraught. Seeing the kid wrapped up in a winter jacket made Alec remember that he was really underdressed for the weather.

The flyer fell out of Alec's hands and landed on the concrete. Alec bent to pick it up, murmuring, "I'm sorry—"

He slowed to a walk, whisking the paper up before Alec did and added it to his stack of identical papers. "It almost tattered, couldn't you have caught the damn thing—" The angry scowl was instantly wiped from the teen's face as he straightened and got a good look at Alec. His face dusted with pink and he began stuttering, "A-ah…I apologize if it hit you—" His original ruthless manner had been immediately replaced, for he seemed completely taken with Alec.

Alec didn't notice any of that, however. He brushed his hair behind his ear and sat back down on the rim of the fountain. "It's okay, it's only paper."

He fully expected to boy to leave then, but he took a seat next to Alec and started talking shyly to him, his hands fumbling the one of the flyers. "I'm James Chase, I was just making my rounds passing out the flyers for CND. There's been a lot of talk about a nuclear war, because of America and the Soviet Union…"

"That's nice. My name's Alec Bonnefoy." He sighed tiredly and dipped one hand in the fountain, swishing water around idly and barely listening. He could phone Aloisa, or Adrian, or even his parents, but he wasn't sure if the call would go through. Then something in his brain clicked, and he gripped the strange boy's shoulder hurriedly to shut him up.

"Did you say Soviet Union?" Alec raised a hand to his lips in thought, staring at James's stack of papers. That was the name he said, he was pretty sure. _Why isn't he leaving though?_

James blubbered, pleased that Alec had finally responded. "Y-yeah—oh, here." He gave the blond the flyer. "I've been passing them out all day, it's—"

Alec snatched the paper, squinting at the printed date and time. "Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament. December…1960." He pointed at the year. "Did you get this part wrong?"

James eyed the flyer curiously. "I don't think so. 1960. It's this year."

Alec's heart gave a tiny leap. There was now an answer for the unanswered phone call and why he had magically disappeared and relocated in London. As ridiculous as it was to think it, he knew that Evangeline had screwed up the timeline and she'd scattered them in random places. _But they can't be far, they must've ended up somewhere close by, the worst case scenario being that they've vanished outside of London. So I just need to take a short stroll and maybe I'll find them—_

"Um, Alec, I was thinking after I finish passing out all of the flyers…maybe we can…get some cof—"

James's eyes were hopeful, reminding Alec too much of Adrian. Alec's hand flew up to his forehead as he gazed past the buildings and farther to town. "I'm sorry, James. Give me a moment, I need to think about something…" Perhaps he should stay in Trafalgar Square, and Evangeline eventually wander here. But what if they weren't even in the same year? What would he do then?

James Chase waited patiently for Alec. He'd been passing out these CND flyers since yesterday because his dad had ordered him to. There was no school today, for the teachers had some sort of conference that took place once a month. He'd wanted to hang with his friends, especially to catch the attention of Jane, who had yet to spare him a glance. It was unthinkable to have him chase after a girl, when most of the time it was the girls who came up to him; yet here was Alec Bonnefoy, this strange French blond who'd been paying less attention to him than Jane. James wasn't dumb; he didn't believe in love at first sight after having dated all those shallow girls who'd wanted him just for looks. Forget about Jane, Alec Bonnefoy alone was more eye-catching than all the girls in his school combined. And the way he spoke…James had no clue where the accent came from. Alec had a lofty way of talking, light and simple, added with the charm of his French and American accent.

While James was busy staring at Alec, Alec himself was looking at a particular figure in the distance, just along the entrance to Trafalgar Square. The man turned, as if to look for someone, and the profile of his face became more defined: blond hair, green eyes, really thick eyebrows…

Alec started and rose to his feet, preparing to run to Arthur Kirkland—no, he'd just be England in this time period—and ask him for help, but James's sudden grasp held him in place. Alec wriggled and sent a helpless look at James, "Let me go."

Of course, that lovely expression from Alec would've made James's arm go slack, but he bit that feeling back and stood up, too. "Where are you going?" If he let go, he was nearly certain that Alec would disappear as quickly as he had come.

Alec saw the shape of his _Maman_ recede farther away. Frantic, he laid a comforting hand on James's restraining hand and whispered, "I'll be back. Just wait here." When James still looked unsure, he sighed and lowered his lashes. In fact, he was getting extremely irritated, playing the yes-no-don't-go game with James. He barely knew the guy, so he had no idea why James was doing this. "For me, James. I promise."

And Alec ran after England as soon as James released him, Adrian's scarf wrapped around his neck whipping in the wind. He easily caught up to the man and grabbed his arm, startling England greatly. The guy must've jumped two feet back when Alec touched him, crying, "_Who are you?_"

That was about where Alec started to sputter. He'd totally acted on instinct, with no plan and no fake background story. But he reeled off anyways, hoping that England wouldn't think he was a mugger or a thief. "Mister, I'm sorry, but I can't find my parents or my sister, so I was hoping you could help."

England calmed down, taking slow breaths. "Right. Er—where did you say you lost them?"

"I didn't." He figured out a plan on the spot: he would make England take him on a meaningless hunt for his 'parents' until England was forced to take him home for the night. He knew _Maman_ still practiced magic, so he guessed he could steal some spellbooks and poof back to his own time. Well, it wouldn't count as stealing, since he would eventually return it when he got home.

England scratched the back of his neck, somewhat distracted. "I mean, I would love to help you, but I'm looking for my assistant, and he said he'd be here ten minutes ago to give me a document—"

Alec pointed at a man carrying a bundle of roses. "Is that him?"

England's cheeks flared up. "It would appear so."

The assistant crossed the road and greeted England with a smile. "Good morning, Mister Kirkland."

The blond stammered, "W-where are the documents?"

The other man laughed. "This is for you," he said, giving England the bouquet. "From a Mister Alfred Jones., I believe. Your flight is scheduled at three. He's quite excited to see you again, you know."

Alec ogled at the roses. "Did you say 'Mister Alfred Jones?'" It wasn't Francis Bonnefoy? Surely he'd heard wrong!

England's assistant regarded Alec peculiarly. "Yes. It's from Mister Alfred F. Jones from America. He's Mister Kirkland's acquain—"

England shushed the man, his roses lying in the crook of his arm. He looked embarrassed, almost happy. "That's enough out of you, Charles. Thank you for delivering this."

Charles inclined his head, grinning cheekily. "You're welcome, Mister Kirkland. Merry Christmas."

Oh dear God. His _Maman_ was dating Adrian's mom—_no_, that sounded too weird! Alfred wouldn't look like the fancy runway model he knew, he'd just be in his normal US mode. Did he do something wrong so that Arthur never fell in love with his dad? _Calm down, Alec, calm down. You need to keep England occupied so he misses his flight so I can stay overnight. That's the plan, stick with the plan…_

He tugged at England's sleeves. "Mister Kirkland! Please help me find my parents! I lost them in somewhere over, um, over there, and they never came looking for me!"

England was at a loss, but he finally agreed. "Oh, alright. But—" _But you look so much like Francis…who are you? _was what England wanted to say, though he couldn't come up with a rational explanation that wouldn't freak the boy out.

He was in. "Thank you so much, Mister Kirkland! My name is Alec! We can look for them down this road—" But wait, he made a promise to James. He'll just run back and say goodbye… "Please wait a moment, Mister Kirkland. I left something at the fountain."

He dashed back to James, who'd been waiting for Alec the entire time, his flyers still in his lap. "James, I'm sorry, but I have to go. I hope I can see you later—"

James's heart dropped. So no coffee with Alec Bonnefoy today. But no matter, he could think of something else. "Hold on, Alec. If you don't mind…will you wait for me at my school tomorrow?" He gave him the address and the time. "I can take you to—"

Alec absently replied, "Sure, sure, whatever. I'll come." It wouldn't matter anyways; Alec was planning to go back to his own time tonight.

James flashed a bright smile at Alec, and the blond was almost sorry to have lied to him. "That's great! I'll see you—"

But Alec had already ran back to join a frazzled England. He didn't know how, or when, it happened, but James thought he might actually…want Alec Bonnefoy. He exhaled and began to distribute flyers again, believing that meeting Alec was a stroke of good luck. There was something peculiar about him, and he wanted to know what it was.

* * *

_November 29, 1960, Manhattan, New York, 9:01 A.M… _

The portal had thrown the Alfred and Ivan like baseballs. The good part for Alfred was that he fell on Ivan's back while his husband got a mouthful of snow; Alfred nonchalantly dusted off his pants and helped Ivan up. It was cold, but the sun was out and the ice on the sidewalk half-melted. They were in a park, but they were one inch close to landing on a kid who was playing with the leftover snow.

Alfred concluded, "That wasn't too bad."

Ivan cleared his throat. "That is easy for you to say."

The little kid pattered away from the pair and screamed in panic, "Mommy! Mommy! Those two men fell out of the sky!"

They haven't even been in 1960 for five minutes and they've begun attracting attention; they needed to find some place to hide, before someone called the police for disturbing the peace or something. Alfred spotted the diner from across the street and dragged Ivan there like a maniac. "Oh my God! I went to that diner every morning for breakfast until it got replaced by Starbucks! This is so cool!"

Ivan's mind was spinning; he was the one landing face-first in the snow, but at least he didn't break any bones like the last time when he jumped off a plane. "Alfred, where is Natalia?"

Alfred pushed Ivan into the restaurant and close the door. "Dunno. Maybe she got tossed to the other side of town. It doesn't matter, she'll find us sooner or later." He slid into a booth and made Ivan sit next to him. "Their pancakes are the best thing in the world. Man, I should've brought Gilbert along." Truthfully, Alfred thought he preferred the 1960 era than the present. Everything was so vintage and warm and familiar…

The taller nation took a newspaper from a nearby stack and read the date: November 29, 1960. Arthur had sent them to the right place, but they had no way to contact the other countries until they, too, entered 1960. The frightening part was that Alfred's short attention span didn't see this as a big worry factor. "Alfred, we need to look for Mikhail and Adri—"

Alfred gestured at a waitress whose back was facing them as she poured coffee for other patrons. "Hello! Two orders of pancakes and coffee, please!"

The lady turned around and smiled pleasantly. "Mr. Jones! My, aren't you early today? The same as yesterday, right?" She winked suggestively at Ivan. "Who's your new friend?"

Alfred's eyes widened. "My God! Clara!" He leaped up to hug the surprised waitress. "You look—you look _young_!"

Clara untangled herself from Alfred's embrace good-naturedly. "Well, I would suppose so. I'm only twenty."

The blond seemed to remember his situation. He coughed once or twice, flustered. "Oh, right. I know. I'm just…you look _great_. Really!"

The waitress seemed to be quite familiar with Alfred as she poked him in the chest a couple times before going into the kitchen. "Sweet-talking isn't going to get you a third helping of pancakes, Mr. Jones."

Alfred crashed back onto his seat, muttering, "Yeah, I know, I know."

Ivan nudged Alfred reproachfully, and Alfred snapped out of his melancholy to stop the waitress. "Hang on, Clara. Have you seen a boy that looks like me without the glasses and platinum hair, and another one that looks like this guy with blond hair?"

Clara leaned across the counter, deep in thought. "Yes, I saw them. Adrian and Michael, right? You took them to your house after you looked forever for their parents. Did you lose them again, Mr. Jones?" She shook her head exasperatedly. "That is no way to take care of children. Someday when you have kids you're going to walk up and down the street looking for them."

Alfred raised his eyebrows. "Adrian and _Michael_?"

"I think we should go," Ivan added. "You say they are in the house, da?"

Clara turned to him, alarmed. "You're Russian?"

Alfred hissed, "Ivan, you need to stop talking like that for now." He got up and Ivan followed suit, mainly because of Clara, whose expression had morphed into a Natalia-glare. "Thanks for the info, Clara!"

Clara shouted after Alfred, "Ivan? As in Ivan Braginski? What the hell are you doing with him? You said you'd rather get shot than be seen with this—"

Alfred laughed nervously, glancing at a glowering Ivan from the corner of his eyes. "Ahaha, this isn't Braginski. This is Ivan…from Texas, you don't know him. He's my cousin. I'll see you later!" He shoved the nation out the door and waved a hasty goodbye at Clara, but rushed back in on a last minute spur. "If you see a silver-haired woman in a red and green dress, you should definitely hide in the back room."

Alfred breezed off, leaving Clara wondering why the American had acted so strangely, it was as if he'd lost his mind. And the way he gaped at her…one would've thought she'd come back from the dead.

* * *

_8:15 P.M., November 28, present, Evangeline's house, dining room…_

Kiku carefully wrapped the bandages around Yukiko's cut. The gash was probably deep enough for stitches, but the blood had congealed and cut was slowly closing up. If she was a real nation, a wound like this would've healed immediately, but being a district meant that she would have to wait.

Arthur had miraculously gotten all the nations out from the basement and even said that the others could stay overnight at his house until he figured how to work the mirror again. Ludwig had carried the mirror frame upstairs with the help of Antonio, which was quite a feat considering that Feliciano had made Ludwig carry him on his back as they were going up the stairs.

Arthur had also offered to cook dinner, but somehow Francis, Feliciano, and Lovino ended up in the kitchen, which was a great relief to everyone else. Arthur silently flipped through a leather bound book with various painted symbols, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

"So what do we do now?" Antonio asked.

"I'm trying to figure it out," Arthur murmured. "The frame's not broken, but I can't open a portal again by myself, and I'm not letting Yukiko help, either." He turned to Kiku and sighed. "I'm sorry, Japan. It's my fault—"

Kiku only gazed at him thoughtfully. "Blaming others will get us nowhere. Let's just concentrate on the portal." He'd phoned Heracles ten minutes ago, and the other man had answered slowly and tonelessly. Kiku hoped he wasn't mad at him.

Yukiko's fingers drummed the table. "I can ask Peter for help. He always knows what to do."

Arthur made a noise in the back of his throat. "Peter? That's ridiculous. If I can't figure it out, what makes you think the brat knows how?"

The smell of baked rolls and grilled salmon floated in from the kitchen, along with Feliciano's constant chatter and, once in a while, Francis's quiet laugh. That was another inconvenience of being a district: she still got hungry regularly. She visited Annelise at her home for a sleepover once, and her mom had made grilled salmon. That was the one time Yukiko had eaten fish four times in one day, but they tasted pretty good—wait…grilled salmon…

Yukiko pondered this. "We can call Annelise's mom to help us."

Arthur raised his head. "Huh?"

"We can call Norway."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews/fav/alerts! You're all such sweeties. ;u; Hope you have a wonderful Christmas baking cookies for Cholesterol Santa and his steroid-infused reindeers. **

**Advance apologies for super long A/N. Mistranslations are by Google Translate. Sp/grammatical errors and DM linked words will be fixed after publication.  
****Mikhail is king of the polls! Say it aloud and it makes him sound like a stripper. HAHA! He and I would like to thank you voters and reviewers with an Adrian-and-Mikhail-filled Chapter 4. **

**Updated PTP Notes/Bio (some CTD people included):**

**Aloisa Beilschmidt (Titania): **junior, age 17, blond, blue eyes, knows a little bit of German and understands Italian III degree of Italian, adores dogs (she has Blackie, Aster, and Berlitz as family pets), has hit her _Onkel _Gilbert on several occasions, GerIta  
**Felicita Vargas Carriedo (tree)**: sophomore, age 16, olive green eyes, brown hair, knows a bit of Italian and Spanish (Italian swear words included), afraid of dogs, SpaMano  
**Adrian Braginski (Lysander)**: junior, age 17, silver hair, blue eyes, Nantucket ahoge lookalike, Alec's lover in real life, know how to speak Russian fluently (but he prefers English), RusAmer  
**Mikhail Braginski (Oberon)**: junior, age 17, elder brother, blond bangs, violet eyes, Ivan-aura, knows how to speak Russian fluently (and sometimes slips into it when he is anxious or angry), was thought to be Russia by Gilbert, RusAmer  
**Alec Bonnefoy (Demetrius)**: junior, age 17, blond hair, sort of England-eyebrows, fail cooking, Adrian's lover in real life, speaks French fluently (sometimes talks in French when he is distraught, but most of the time he does it for fun), FrUK  
**Evangeline Bonnefoy (Hippolyta)**: sophomore, age 16, green eyes, blond hair, excellent chef, super polite, speaks French fluently (though she prefers to use English), FrUK

**Melanie Beaumont (Hermia): **junior, age 17, recently promoted cheerleading captain, brown-bleached-blond hair, red contacts, dresses promiscuously to attract Adrian, has some degree of hate for Alec**  
Ellen Mercer (Helena): **junior, age 16, red hair tied up, varsity for track, Aloisa's good friend**  
Angelina Allred**: blond hair, stuck-up, picks on Felicita, hates Aloisa, tried to capture the kids using her personal bodyguards, both her and father are now traumatized by Natalia, she and her father moved away when Thomas got fired by Alfred.  
**Lisa Berns**: psychotic babysitter, burned part of Felicita's school after the kids' departure in CTD, was a newspaper headline (discovered by Matthew and Gilbert), ex-messenger for Russian underworld, used to be Natalia's personal assistant.  
**Clara: **waitress at 1960!diner. Calls Mikhail/Michael and Adrian 'darlings,' and refers to America as Mr. Jones.  
**James Chase**: On his last year of secondary school (high school), age 18, 1960!character, blond hair, light brown eyes, enamored with Alec, typical mean rich boy until he met Alec  
**Charles/Char**: James's self-proclaimed 'second-in-command.' Rude, typical mean rich boy, refers to Alec as 'doll,' 1960!character, suspects Alec had something to do with James's shocking transformation  
**Charles**: England's assistant/secretary, delivers packages to England and runs errands.  
**Jane**: the girl James Chase had been in love with, always refused his affections  
**Miss Stevens**: Drama teacher, prima-donna attitude, tries to act like she's 20, still single at age 43.

**Yukiko Karpusi**: appears to be an elegant little five year old girl, but is currently 14 age-wise (human birthday December 2nd) and represents the Kansai/Kinki district in Japan, hairpin is her life source, Giripan  
**Hanna Oxenstierna**: Cute blond girl, seems to understand her parent's identity, likes to chat with Annelise and Yukiko, age 10, SuFin  
**Eirik Køhler**: serious boy with Norway-hat, likes to listen to Peter talk, seems to understand his parent's identity, age 9, DenNor  
**Annelise (Anne) Køhler**: bouncy, energetic girl, friends with Hanna and Yukiko, seems to understand her parent's identity, age 8, DenNor

**Extra Notes (read this if you are lost)**: -Adrian and Mikhail are fraternal twins.  
-James Chase will be usually referred to as 'James', and James Stanton (Alec's ex-boyfriend) by 'Stanton' or his full name. Just as Italy is Feliciano and Romano is Lovino.  
-A Midsummer Night's Dream will be performed on December 24, Friday, 6 P.M.-8 P.M.  
-Adrian and Mikhail are in **Manhattan, New York**; Aloisa and Felicita are in **Munich, West Germany**; Evangeline is in **Strasbourg, France**; Alec is in **London, England**  
-Some future scenes will include soundtrack, so please look for that!  
-So far, the Nordic children's situation is undetermined.  
-Alfred's townhouse looks like this (I swear I didn't just go to Google and type, 'elegant Manhattan townhouses. It's just named that way! LOL) It's the one in the middle. :  
**h t t p :/ www. istockphoto. com/ stock-photo-8223220-elegant-manhattan-townhouses. php**  
-1st scene is still on Monday, remember! Scenes skip around every chapter, so make sure you look at the heading.  
-"In 1960s, 'Dude' meant a geek or a panty waist."  
-From Wiki about the **Fair Copy**: _Jefferson preserved a four-page draft that late in life he called the "original Rough draught"…The copy that was submitted to Congress by the Committee on June 28 is known as the Fair Copy.__Presumably, the Fair Copy was marked up by secretary Charles Thomson while Congress debated and revised the text. This document was the one that Congress approved on July 4, making it…The Fair Copy has been lost, and was perhaps destroyed in the printing process, or destroyed during the debates in accordance with Congress's secrecy rule.  
_-Adrian gets a flashback, like Aloisa. Hooray! *herp derp* And why would America be such a dumbass and show England the manuscript of the Declaration of Independence, you ask? Well, use your imaginations. Perhaps America felt that England would be too tsundere to do any harm at the moment beside deny the whole thing as a joke (which he did), and that this would be a good warning to him—from the will-be-USA to England. Here, we see that America's plan somewhat backfired.  
-And by the way, Jyro and I got some discussion done on the doujin. Hooray~!  
-[EDIT] America and England are still together. For the moment, at least.

**This section will be updated with each parents' arrival:  
**-Kids disappear on _Monday, November 28, present_to _Monday, November 28, 1960_.  
-Alfred and Ivan left on _Monday, November 28, present_ to _Tuesday, November 29, 1960_ in Manhattan, New York. (They lost a day.)

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

_11:35 P.M., Alfred's townhouse, Manhattan, November 28, 1960… _

"What I still can't understand is why no one's looking for you two…this is getting difficult."

Adrian and Mikhail were sitting side by side on the couch, listening to America go on about their journey around the city and to several police stations. America had finally brought them to his home after taking them back to Clara's for dinner. There America had been called away by a slender, serious-looking lady (who America later said was his secretary) for a phone call. He'd returned to the diner appearing severely disappointed, but nonetheless, he put on an enthusiastic smile as he beckoned Clara to join them for dinner.

It was past nine when they hailed a taxi and got home. The cabbie must've had night-vision goggles, for he seemed to know where he was going (or at least Mikhail hoped so); Adrian thought they might've gone to Upper East Side when they were dropped off. Apparently, America intended for both boys to stay the night so they could resume searching tomorrow.

Adrian fiddled with the contents of his pockets idly. "Well, there's a lot of Brooks in the city, maybe our parents wandered too far…" He stared at the soda inside the glass bottle as America gently swished it back and forth.

"Could be possible." He took a swig and emptied the bottle. "Don't you guys have school IDs or something like that?"

Adrian quickly tucked his wallet deeper inside his jean pocket, hoping that it wouldn't look too conspicuous. Their licenses and school IDs all bore the last name Braginski, and he figured it wouldn't sit too well with America. "Our school doesn't make them."

"Really? Never heard of a school that didn't." The blond yawned and rubbed his eyes. "Well, I'm going to go take a shower. There's another bathroom and two spare bedrooms on the second floor. Don't be discouraged, we'll definitely find them tomorrow."

America was about to leave until Adrian piped up, "What were we running from earlier today?"

He hesitated, then muttered, "Braginski. Government spy. He found me when we were looking for your parents."

"Oh," Adrian said. "Why would he be following you—"

"He always does. He thinks I'm going to drop a nuclear bomb on him. I'd like to go up to him and tell him that I really will if he doesn't stop stalking me!" America froze and glanced at the boys as if he'd said too much. "No more questions, guys. I'm sorry. You should get some sleep." And he stretched stiffly and made his way down the hall and into a room.

Mikhail crossed his legs and slumped back on the pillows. Although America's townhouse was richly furnished and tidy (not to mention quite stylish), he kept smelling hamburgers and fries in certain areas. He took his own wallet out and wondered if he could fool the people here with future money. "What do you suppose we do now?"

Adrian heard the splatter of running water and got up, his hands shoved in his pockets. "Do you think Mom and Dad found out that we're missing by now?"

His brother filed through the cards from his wallet. "Possibly. Someone ought to have noticed." Mikhail shuffled his cards, and two folded photographs fell neatly to the carpet. He picked them up, confused. He didn't remember having those in there.

Mikhail unfolded the first one and out popped the smiling faces of his Мама and Папа, dated November 23; there was snow in the background, and both adults were bundled in ski jackets and mittens. He turned to the back and read his Мама's cramped handwriting: _For_ _Mikhail—Thanksgiving break Tahoe trip. I took this picture! The ones your dad took turned out blurry, and I keep seeing your Aunt Natalia in the background for some reason when they were printed. Forgot to show you yesterday, thought I might stuff it in here._

For once, Alfred had worn pants, but that was only because it was way too cold for him to prance around in a dress. His blond bangs were kept back with ski goggles, so he looked more like Alfred than Allie. The other photo had all four of them in it; that one was the picture Alfred had made a stranger take. The back of that picture was filled with Alfred's cursive, though all Mikhail could make out were the words, _You two look so cute_; he had the feeling that Alfred made Ivan write something, too, because his dad's neat, square Russian letters were squeezed in the corner. He hoped Alfred didn't "borrow" any of his money as he was slipping the photos in, since his mom still owed him twenty bucks from the time he made him go buy soda and pounds of fries from McDonalds for him.

"Mikhail, are you listening?"

Mikhail jumped slightly and tossed the photos back into his pocket. "What?"

Adrian rocked back and forth on his heels. "I said, 'Maybe we could find Aunt Natalia or Aunt Katyusha's address and ask them to help us.'" He paused. "But then again, I don't think they'll want to help right now."

"We can look for Evangeline's mom's address," Mikhail suggested. "If Evangeline got us here, England might be able to get us back."

Adrian shrugged. "Better look around before Mom gets out of the shower."

"Right." Mikhail stood up and followed his brother down the hallway America took. As he did so, both photographs he'd hastily crammed into his pocket tumbled out and landed soundlessly on the floor as he rose. But neither Mikhail nor Adrian saw this; they shuffled out of the living room, peering interestedly inside other rooms and trying to find something that could be of use to them.

* * *

_Five minutes later, still in Alfred's townhouse, hallway…_

Most of the rooms on the first floor were working spaces, all of them equipped with two or more computers. The boys couldn't find America's main office, which sucked because they were almost certain England's address or phone number would be there. But even if they did find his address, Mikhail would have to learn how to work that stupid rotary dial phone. They looked cool, but the clacking noise from turning the dial was loud and America would definitely hear.

"Mikhail, come here." Adrian wriggled a jammed doorknob, not daring to crash it open for fear of catching America's attention. "Help me, will you?"

Mikhail twisted the doorknob and the door opened, as easy as anything. Adrian frowned. "I loosened it for you."

His brother crossed his arms. "This is the only locked room. I don't think we should go in."

"It's not locked, it was rusted. And that means no one's been here for a while, so there must be a reason."

"Might just be the storage room." Even as Mikhail said it, he was already creeping into the room behind Adrian, keeping a watchful ear on the sound of the shower.

It was just as Mikhail said: it _was_ a storage room. Dusty paintings were in a pile here and there, along with cardboard boxes stacked on top of one another until they nearly touched the ceiling. Adrian tore something off the wall brewed a small dust storm up.

"Put that back, you idiot," he hissed. "Mom's going to see—"

"Calm down," Adrian said nonchalantly. "It's just a costume. See, it even comes with a hat. That's pretty legit." He pressed the blue and white outfit to himself. "I bet Mom still has this. He can wear it for Halloween."

Mikhail snatched the clothing away and hung it back on the wall. "It is not a costume. Do you think America would keep replicas of a Revolutionary War uniform in his house? It must have been his. There are scratch marks and tears on the shirt."

But Adrian had moved on and was busy checking out the paintings that remained on the wall. "Mikhail, look at this." He pointed to two or three particular paintings, his lips quaking in disbelief. "That's Mom and Evangeline's mom."

And indeed it was. The first portrait was of England and two little boys, one who sat on his lap, all three of them smiling. The next one was again, England and the previous boys, now probably around age ten; the first boy stood next to England, his shining blue eyes grinning at Adrian and Mikhail, the second boy was slightly pushed to the corner so that he was in England's shadow. But the England in the second painting looked distracted, his expression unreadable. The last painting had only the blue-eyed boy, now a teenager, possibly sixteen, in a blue militia uniform, standing stiffly next to a sitting England; neither men smiled, their faces somber. There seemed to be a distance between them, a crackle of lightening ready to explode.

There was a photo taped to the frame of the last painting, however. Adrian gingerly removed it and the twins stared at it. There was their mom as Alfred, his arm wrapped around England, whose face looked red enough to burst; behind the two loomed the Golden Gate Bridge and the sunset, glowing orange and yellow. Written on the back was, _Valentine's Day, 1960. Took Iggy to San Francisco. _

Mikhail didn't know what to say. "This is—" Then he heard the trickling of water from the shower stop. He hurriedly straightened the Revolutionary outfit on the wall. "America is coming out of the shower. Put that back, Adrian!" He wrenched the photo from his brother and stuck it back to the frame before Adrian pocketed it. "Come on, the stairs are to the left. We can run upstairs right now—do not take that! That is not yours!"

Adrian clung to a paper-clipped stack of paper he'd whisked from a cabinet. "He won't notice! It's not like we're stealing, we're going to give it back to Mom eventually!"

The bathroom door clicked and opened, the heavy footsteps of America following soon after. Mikhail pushed Adrian out of the storage room and slowly pulled the door shut before skittering up the stairs, dashing to the second floor and into their bedrooms.

America put on his glasses just as the boys scurried upstairs behind his back. He wrung his hair dry and went into the living room, hoping to get more information out of the twins. The things Adrian and Michael told him this afternoon sounded fake, as if they'd made it up on the spot. At first, they couldn't even decide what their home address was. Normally, he didn't think he would bother, but England had called a couple hours ago at the diner to tell him that he'd missed his plane and would have to reschedule his flight to a much later date, since the seats to New York were packed for the week because of the holidays. He'd also mentioned a lost boy staying with him, someone named Alec Bitt. So America was irritated, though he didn't want to show it to the boys; no World Meeting and nothing planned for his boss or him, and Iggy couldn't even visit him. It never occurred to him what a coincidence it was that he also had two lost children that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.

What made his day suck even worse was that he had to run away from Braginski that morning for the sake of the boys. He, the all-American hero, never backed down from a fight. He would've pumped the commie full of lead if he didn't remember that he had two human civilians behind him. He would be in quite a difficult situation if Adrian and Michael saw Braginski getting shot and act as if bleeding from a gunshot wound was an everyday activity for him (unfortunately, it took more than just bullets to bring down the Soviet Union). But what puzzled America was why Russia would come to New York when his hands must've been full with his troublesome sisters, the Baltic nations, and Gilbert. He hadn't been in the U.S. since World War II ended.

But it was just as well; he'd like to deliver _his_ boys safely home—after all, that was only expected of a hero like him—before England arrived. Besides, America felt a gap between them nowadays, with him so busy running off that damn commie and England immersed with reconstruction. He'd love to see him; in fact, he'd be overjoyed, but he felt kind of awkward whenever England slipped into one of his trances at dinner and stared off into the distance, barely listening to America talk.

Unfortunately, it looked like Adrian and Michael had gone upstairs long ago. America crashed on the couch alone and fumed. There was something off about those two, something strange about the way they dressed, the way they talked, and how they kept touching the vinyl records as if they'd never seen one before. For instance, Adrian often started sentences with, 'Dude,' and he had no clue why he'd say something like that. America thought Michael would get offended, but the boy didn't even react.

His feet tapped the carpet idly until he heard the crunch of paper. He blinked, bewildered, and bent to pick up the two crumpled pieces of paper on the ground. He opened the first one, and his eyes widened at the sight of that commie Braginski standing next to another person that looked just like him. It was a color photograph, but it wasn't grainy like most he'd seen. The picture was crystal clear and glossy, which was impossible, no one knew how to make them like that yet…There was a field of white behind the two, and both of them were grinning and puffing out clouds of cold. For once, Braginski didn't look creepy; he was genuinely smiling, his gloved hand clasped around America's look-a-like's hand. They were standing together like a couple, but that wasn't what freaked the American out the most. At the bottom right-hand corner of the color photograph was the date, _11/23/_…

The year. The year was off by a mile, about fifty years after 1960. His heart thumping, America flipped to the back of the photo and read the message that was scribbled in _his _handwriting_: For_ _Mikhail—Thanksgiving break Tahoe trip. I took this picture! The ones your dad took turned out blurry, and I keep seeing your Aunt Natalia in the background for some reason when they were printed. Forgot to show you yesterday, thought I might stuff it in here._

The other photograph had a similar note on the back, along with a square, block handwriting that America knew to be Braginski's. And suddenly America knew why Adrian and Michael had looked so familiar. He was staring at himself and Braginski when he first met the boys. But…

It wasn't possible. The pictures must be a hoax—his imposter had spelled Michael's name wrong. Hah! That was another proof that the whole thing was fake—and Braginski must've had something to do with it. _He must be planning something bigger by using these two boys as bait._ He shook his head angrily. _Well, I'm not buying it. _He had to protect Adrian and Michael Brooks, and he wasn't going to tell them about this. The Soviet government was _not_ going to use his citizens as part of their plan, and he was going to see to it that Braginski's ulterior motive fails, whatever it was. Adrian and Michael were just two kids…the commie must've somehow brainwashed them, and now he wanted to kidnap them back to his commie country. That must've been the reason why Braginski was in Manhattan today, and he would most likely linger until he got his hands on the boys. America swore that he'd help Adrian and Michael get back to their parents no matter what.

But he still couldn't imagine a logical explanation for the dates. Ivan Braginski, the crazy mastermind, what the hell was he trying to achieve by putting that as the year? America was determined to beat the commie at his own game. Combined with his initial disappointment at England's missed flight (which had yet to disappear) and the confusion dealing with Braginski's scheme, America's mind turned hazy and he soon drifted into a light, dreamless sleep on the couch.

* * *

_1:43 A.M., still in America's townhouse, upstairs_…

Manhattan was a lot different from where the kids lived in California. The city night was as alive as it had been during the day, though Adrian guessed that America's townhouse was located in the rich people neighborhood, since he had a guard at his door during the afternoons. There was an alcove next to the windows, in which Adrian was currently lounging on. America didn't lie about the rooms; the boys found both of them, but one of them was dingy and musty and the light bulb had burned out the moment Mikhail flipped the switch on. They finally decided to share a room and toss a coin to determine who'd get the bed.

Adrian lost, so now he had to spend the night next to the balcony in his warm, little alcove corner. It didn't matter to Adrian, since loser got the shower first; he'd been feeling crummy walking up and down and around and under Manhattan. America obviously knew where he was going, which meant that he went out of his way to take the boys to every single corner he could.

At around eleven o' clock, Adrian had moved the bedside lamp to his alcove so he wouldn't disturb Mikhail when he was reading America's papers. Adrian's cell phone flickered and showed the time, 1:43 A.M., on November 29, present year. Mikhail gave a soft exhale and tumbled under his sheets. _Must be nice to sleep alone without Aloisa weighing you down_, Adrian thought. Both boys were in their day clothes since America had given no thought to their night wardrobe; no matter, they were too tired to think much about that. The townhouse from across their street had several lights turned on. Adrian could see a high school girl in braids doing her homework by the window, and her mom on the third floor brushing her curls. He didn't even think people actually did that. Well, he knew they _did_ it, but the scene looked artificial, almost like watching a dollhouse in motion, with the mom doll fixing her hair before bed and the obedient kid finishing his or her homework. Adrian wondered if people in 1960 acted like that all the time. The most his mom did before bed was brush his teeth, throw on a clean t-shirt, and start snoring as soon as he hit the pillow; even as Allie, this routine had not altered.

He wished he was back in his own time. Of course, Adrian didn't blame Evangeline for the incident (not too much), but he wanted to see America and Russia (or Soviet Union, whatever he was in 1960) as his parents. He had a feeling that if he stayed a little longer in the past, afternoon tea with Aunt Natalia would start to sound pretty good. Adrian got out the file he'd taken from the storage room and picked at the seal with his nails. There were no labels on the file.

Adrian expected the contents to be papers like the ones Alfred and Ivan had given him, paper clipped and neatly stapled, but out of the file slipped four unattached sheets of yellowed paper. There were some faint scribbles between sentences and ink stains, but Adrian could still make out the squiggly cursive, _A Declaration by the Representatives of the United States of America, in General Congress assembled… _At the top left-hand corner, someone had painstakingly wrote out, _America, this joke has gone too f—_ The last word was blotted out, as if whoever was penning it had pressed too hard on the quill and splattered ink.

Then the words on the paper glimmered and flashed until he could no longer see Mikhail or his lamp or even himself. He could only see a coffee shop in a city, blanketed in gray which brought forth a sudden rush of summer rain. He could've screamed, and he would have if not for the fact that his mouth felt glued shut. But he was still in the room, still in 1960 in his alcove; he gripped his pillow and swallowed nervously, waiting to see what would happen.

At the coffee house, some tables placed outside the shops were overturned by fleeing patrons; the people in the scene ran out of Adrian's line of sight, their arms hovering over their heads to block the droplets. Men rushed down the streets holding their top hats down and looking at their feet as they scurried away. Ladies, clad in puffy dresses and lace, lifted their skirts in heavy bundles to avoid it soaking up water from puddles. Only two people did not make an attempt to leave. One was a green eyed man sitting in a chair, his cup of tea poised half-way to his lips. He watched the rain drip into his tea, his expression frozen. The other man—no, he was more of a teenager—dressed in blue was standing and trying to control his ragged breathing. With a start, Adrian realized it was Alfred and Evangeline's mother in the picture, but how—

_What do you mean, 'joke'? _the younger man, America, shouted. _This isn't a joke! _

England lowered his teacup a fraction of an inch. His hair was flattened by the rain, though he pretended to not notice. _I'm afraid_ _I don't understand._

America wrung his hands helplessly. _The note you wrote on Jefferson's manuscript I showed you! I'm serious!_

_You don't know what you're talking about, Alfred, _England replied steadily, though his hand holding the teacup was beginning to shiver. _I'll let this little…this prank slid by, although I will not be as lenient as I am now if something like this happens again—_

With a great sweep of his arm, America knocked the teacup out of England's hand and glared fiercely. _You think this is a prank? Then_ _it seems that you don't know me after all—_

_I know you better than you know yourself! _England screamed. He gazed at the porcelain shards on the ground in shock. The he stood up, the chair toppling behind him, and smacked the American. Those emerald eyes gleamed with an unnatural light, almost maniacal. It wasn't like Aunt Natalia's expression, because the furious façade England was trying to keep up was tainted with desperation and fear from the quivering of his lips. _You don't have the power, _he snarled, although it was as if he hoped it to be true. _You wouldn't dare. _

America pursed his lips and glowered back with an equal intensity, one hand reaching up to touch where England had struck._ My independence is not a joke, England. Believe what you will, but you must know that I am no longer a boy._

Then the misty image snapped and Adrian could see his surroundings again. It had started to snow outside, the window pane beginning to frost. His right hand that held the papers shook, but he clamped hard on it as to not drop the documents.

He coughed once, testing his voice. "Mikha—" But he hesitated. What good would there be from waking Mikhail up? He wouldn't believe him, and he'd say that he was hallucinating. _And I might as well be…_

At first he thought the papers were _the_ Declaration of Independence, but according to America it was a manuscript (plus there were no tell-tale signatures at the bottom, and the real Declaration was one giant parchment). It might've been a Dunlap broadside, but the words were clearly written in ink by a human being, not printed. He switched to the last piece of paper and saw a modern note on the bottom corner, held in place by a thin strip of tape so as to not damage the manuscript. Written in Alfred's handwriting in blue ballpoint-ink were the words, _Fair Copy of the Declaration of Independence, 1776. _

This could be considered a treasure, it belonged in a museum. The Fair Copy of the Declaration of Independence, final manuscript of the real Declaration that was rumored to be lost or destroyed, had been in America's house all along. Adrian felt he had intruded upon information he wasn't supposed to touch, wasn't supposed see to or even know about. The additional notes from England made the document seem private, nearly as personal as Jeanne d'Arc's letters to Alec's dad and Evangeline's recorded death of Jeanne had been. Wordlessly, Adrian slipped the pages back into its folder and placed it under a pillow.

He would not question the memory, or whatever it might be, for he felt that whatever that made him see that was older and more powerful than the nations. Before Adrian fell asleep, he wondered if Alfred was going to show him the Fair Copy in due time, or if he had intended to keep it hidden forever.

* * *

_10:32 A.M., Munich, West Germany, November 28, 1960…_

Italy sluggishly led the girls down a worn path, carrying his gift box gingerly as if the wind would shatter it. Aloisa and Felicita followed mutely. When they questioned him about their destination, Italy bit his lower lip and murmured intelligible Italian under his breath.

Felicita scooted closer to Aloisa. "I'm getting scared. Your mom knows what he's doing, right?"

Aloisa's mind flashed back to her vision on the plane, the one where her Vati had almost shot her Mama. "I-I hope so."

Felicita nudged her cousin's shoulder. "Your mom looks…um…he's not himself—"

"Oh, cut that out, Felicita. I know what you mean. He looks depressed, and he has never been depressed," she whispered.

"But the war's been over for over ten years," Felicita argued softly. "Shouldn't he be—oof—" As she talked, Felicita accidently bumped into Italy, who'd stopped abruptly. "What's the matter, Mrs. Be—uh, I mean, Feliciano?"

Aloisa glared at the brunette, but Italy didn't seem to notice. He pointed at the house in front of them and smiled slightly. "We're here."

And it was a great, big single house, not unlike Aloisa's current home. The only difference was that there were no tomato plants or flowers that her Mama would always plant. And there was a person sitting on the doorstep…

Italy's mouth split into a delighted grin as he raced to that person. "Gilbert!" he yelled. "Gilbert! You're here!" He crashed into the man, hugging him and crying while Prussia patted his back.

"Hello, Feliciano," he said tiredly. Aloisa had never seen her _Onkel_ so wearied, so battered. And didn't add his trademark laugh or 'awesome-ness' like he usually did.

Italy helped him up and rubbed his eyes. "How'd you leave—"

"Braginski is away," Prussia sighed, then whispered in Italy's ear, "He went to America to pick up a document. But he's staying longer because he thinks Belarus followed him, and he wants to make sure that she doesn't stay in America." He paused. "But the strange thing is that…I was certain I saw Belarus looking for Russia in his house before I left."

Italy beamed, ignoring the last part. "Then that means Ludwig is feeling better, now that you're here—"

"West…he's…I don't know. Listen, I can't stay in West Germany for too long…Feliciano, he blames himself for what happened—" His attention suddenly got caught by Aloisa and Felicita, who were standing uncomfortably in the far corner. "And who might you two be?" he asked kindly, without a trace of sarcasm.

Italy spoke for them, much to the relief of Aloisa. She had a hard time looking at her _Onkel_ when he was in such a forlorn state. "They're Aloisa and Felicita. Cousins. They're visiting from America. We were hoping that Ludwig could help find their chaperon…"

Prussia nodded and began to make his way towards the girls. "West will find your guardian in no time." He glanced at Italy and opened the door. "I'll make sure he does. My name's Gilbert, come on in—woah!"

Out of the house charged three brown and gold blurs, one which darted between Prussia's legs. They paused a few feet in front of the girls, snarling and growling, two seething in rage.

"Aster, get back here—" Prussia grabbed at one dog's collar, but it avoided the grasp and barked at him.

Italy didn't dare to touch the dogs. He put his hands to his mouth and watched in fear. "They're going to bite her, Gilbert!"

Felicita let out a squeak; her first encounter with Aloisa's dogs hadn't been pleasant, though they didn't rip her to shreds and were actually quite playful. _These_ dogs, on the other hand, were practically spitting fire at them. The German Shepherd heard the noise and cocked his head in that direction. He made a low guttural sound at the bottom of his throat and leapt at Felicita.

"Wait!" Aloisa pushed the girl on the grass and held her arms out, ready to catch the incoming dog. It landed right in Aloisa's arms and started to thrash about, chomping at air. She clamped her arm over the dog's muzzle and held him down on the lawn, ready if the dog decided to pounce. This was Blackie, she knew. He was the one that refused to sit still and gnawed at her ankles whenever he felt like playing. She saw Berlitz, her ever-so-calm Doberman, sit tall and proud, watching Blackie fall under Aloisa's hold. _My dogs are older than me, this is crazy—_

Prussia observed Aloisa in wonder as she wrestled with Blackie. What was amazing was the fact that she never put too much weight on the dog and her arm never gave. "_Sit, Blackie_," she hissed in German. Now that she thought about it, the few German she knew were dog commands and a few Gilbert-words. Her dad had taught her this phrase: "_Blackie, be a good dog, sit for me_."

Aster instantly stopped moving the same time Blackie ceased struggling. Both dogs put their heads on their paws and stared at Aloisa apologetically. The blond girl fell to the grass and breathed hard while Berlitz sauntered to her side and sat down. She scratched behind the Doberman's ears, and he let her. Berlitz's onyx eyes gleamed at her, as if he was laughing at Blackie's defeat.

Felicita kneeled by Aloisa and exhaled. "Are you alright?"

"They're my dogs," she said softly, much too quietly for Prussia or Italy to hear. "They wouldn't hurt me, right, Berlitz?"

The girl raised her eyebrow at Berlitz, whose ears had perked up in attention. "Right."

Prussia frantically pulled Aloisa to her feet and shooed the dogs away. "_Mein Gott_, I'm sorry, Aloisa. Did they bite you? Does it—"

"They wouldn't hurt anybody," Aloisa said. "They just want to go for a walk…"

Prussia and Italy looked at her warily before leading them inside the house. If Prussia was unable to restrain them, how could a human child? But Aloisa had, so the two nations approached the girls more cautiously. Blackie never listened to anyone besides Ludwig, until now.

Blackie and Aster followed Aloisa indoors, nipping at her jeans and whining for attention. Berlitz merely sniffed the air and sat on the doorstep, guarding the house. He felt something familiar about the girl when she touched him…it was as if his master was petting him. He put his head between his paws and licked his nose. His master hadn't taken him for a walk in ages; he wished the blond felt better soon so the he could take him and Blackie and Aster to the park.

* * *

_11:57 P.M., November 28, present, Evangeline's house, living room…_

Yukiko lied on the couch and undid her bandages. Arthur-san's house was enormous, though it didn't look like much at first. Turned out there were more rooms on the second floor than she'd thought. The remaining nations were probably all asleep in Arthur's guest bedrooms; she knew her mom was asleep, for she had snuck downstairs when Kiku's eyes finally closed. She needed some time alone to think.

Arthur had called Norway two or three hours ago, and the man had responded monotonously. Yukiko had to assure the nations several times that it was the way Norway talked, and that he was sure to come. She expected him to arrive at around three in the afternoon tomorrow, which she heard was the fastest ticket he could book. Yukiko peeled off the last of the linen and discarded it; all that remained of her gash was a thin, pink line. She wondered if this had any effect on the people or the economy of the Kinki district.

Just an hour ago, she'd spoken to her dad on the phone. Although his expression remained neutral, Yukiko guessed that he was disappointed, because he had been waiting for them for a week in Tokyo. They were going to celebrate her human birthday; she would be turning fifteen as of this year.

"What's the matter?"

Yukiko started and put her good hand on her chest. "Oh, it's Germany-san. What are you doing here?"

Ludwig gestured at two cups of hot chocolate he had in his hands. "Feliciano wanted me to make some. I can ask the same of you. What are you doing here at this hour?"

"Researching why the kids disappeared."

The contents of Evangeline's files were laid out on her stomach. It appears as though Evangeline had took Alec's pile and combined them. She had shuffled through each one, hoping to find a reason why they had gone to 1960. She suspected it was because of this, but Alfred had frightened her in the beginning and she forgot how she reached that conclusion. In chronological order, she rearranged the papers; 400 A.D…1337 A.D…1557 A.D…1784 A.D…1856 A.D…1937 A.D…1970 A.D—

Ludwig sighed. "I don't think there's anything in there. It's late, Yukiko, let's go upstairs—"

Her brow furrowed in concentration. "Wait..."

Yukiko went back to the year 1937. There was nothing else between the year 1937 and 1970, when all the dated papers from earlier were present. Perhaps…perhaps the missing information caused the kids to return to a date and year where they could experience the history their parents neglected on purpose. But she didn't know who or what made the time travel possible. Those that have attempted time travel in the past either perished or failed. Unless…unless there was a greater power watching over the countries and twisting the natural order of events in the world…

She turned to Ludwig. "Did you forget to include anything in the folders you gave Aloisa?"

"I don't think so—"

Yukiko leafed through the pages. "I think you did," she said. "Arthur-san and Francis-san didn't include any information on World War Two or after. That's why the kids went back. They had to relive the aftermath to fill in the gap you didn't tell them—"

Ludwig stared at her in horror. "But those files…I-I…Feliciano's boss kept those, and mines—"

She gave him a sad smile. "It doesn't matter, I only wanted to know why. Good night, Ludwig-san."

Yukiko tucked the papers back into the file and tiptoed upstairs with the blond. _A greater power watching over the countries and twisting the natural order of events in the world… _What nonsense, she couldn't believe she thought of it. Even that phrase alone sounded stupid and too science-fiction for her.

Ludwig handed her his cup. "We'll sort everything else out tomorrow," he said.

The smell of warm chocolate was comforting and making her drowsy. He was right, she couldn't do anything helpful until Norway arrived. But what she hated the most was the "how's" and "why's" that almost always ended in a loop whenever she tried to solve them.

"Thank you." Yukiko took a tiny sip at the same moment Monday ended. It was now 12:01.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews/favs/alerts and have a Happy New Year! –blows noisemaker- **

**Sp/grammatical errors and DM linked words will be fixed after publication. **

**X-MAS FANART from Tsuki-chan (link also on my profile): h t t p:/ miekuning. deviantart. com/#/d35ktj6 **FFFFFF it's so cute and heartwarming, yet totally infused with Allie-ness; go look at it! –dies- And look, I spy Ivan with a cookie in the back! I adore Adrian's teddy bear and Alfred/Allie's dress (it's just how I imagined it XD) and Mikhail and the background and oh god, I love everything! –bawls- …Adrian and Mikhail look absolutely precious. Thank you so much, bunny! ;w;

**Notes: **-Yes, I got the anti-communist protest saying from Indiana Jones. Lol.  
-Make sure you read the date heading after each divider. They tend to jump around a lot.  
-So. Now GeIta, Spamano, FrUK, RusAmer, Natalia, and Gilbert are either in 1960 or in the process of getting there.  
-I have fallen in love with a commercial song. You all must have heard it, it comes up on YouTube every so often as an ad for TravelNevada (no, I'm _so_ not advertising. Haha!). Well, that song will be used in my new CTD/PTP sidestory, which will contain spoilers for PTP. More info in upcoming A/Ns!  
**-Mpreg in CTD/PTP**: Okay, so this question has been asked before, and I'll explain it to you guys here. Childbirth: C-section (I don't know how it'd work any other way…). And about the nations looking like girls—technically, all nations could look like girls, the way it is here. For example, Alfred represents all citizens of the USA, both male and female. He could take the outer image of a particular female citizen and morph it to fit his own image; so yes, they have the parts and figure of a woman. _I_ don't count it as genderbending, since they are only temporarily altering their physical differences.

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

_November 29, 1960, Manhattan, New York, 9:45 A.M…_

Alfred led Ivan down the winding streets of Upper East Side and around parks. He had wanted to sit in one of those park benches and enjoy the '1960s feel' but he changed his mind when a group of anti-communist protesters started walking around and waving their red banners, screaming, "Better dead than red! Better dead than red!—" They even had a refreshment stand, which was impressive, but Ivan obviously was not amused. Alfred didn't know if he looked really Russian or if he was just very intimidating, but several lady protesters screamed when they saw him.

A few blocks away, Alfred shoved his hands in his jean pocket and glanced at Ivan. "Are you mad at me?"

"Нет."

He shuffled a little closer. "Are you lying?"

"Нет."

They walked down a lane in silence until Ivan piped up, "How do you know Clara?"

Alfred looked up, surprised. "I ate at that diner everyday until it closed, I told you, remember? That diner is run by her and her sister Ann—"

"She should still be alive in the present," Ivan countered, "yet you looked so shocked when you saw her."

Alfred tensed up, "I-I…she died. 1982. A bus hit her in the morning when she was walking to work."

"I am sorry to hear that."

"It's not like you could've known." Alfred shrugged and wormed his hands into his pockets. "It's been a long time. A few months after Clara died Ann sold the place and moved to Connecticut." He laughed mirthlessly. "You know what's funny? Everyone we are seeing right now…they're either dead or old...while we will never change."

"I know—"

"But," Alfred continued, as if he was afraid Ivan would interrupt again, "it was nice seeing her again."

He had no idea that the streets could change so much since 1960; this was ridiculous, he was getting lost in his own home. But soon, out of sheer luck, they stumbled upon Alfred's old townhouse. The lights inside were dim, and the guard wasn't here yet.

Ivan thought Alfred was going to start bawling manly tears for Clara or something, but then the blond stared up at the second floor and raised his arms like a kid. "Okay. Hoist me up, Ivan."

He looked at him with a weird expression. "Excuse me?"

"Carry me up so I can reach the railing. The guest bedroom is by the balcony, and I never lock the balcony windows. I can slip in and find Adrian and Mikhail. Come on, help me up."

Ivan did so, but he noticed some passersby doing double takes. "We look like burglars, Alfred."

The Russian gave Alfred a little push and the American tumbled on the balcony. He grinned down at his husband. "No we don't. My neighbors know I always lose the key, and I lock myself out sometimes. Oh, look, that guy looks familiar!" Alfred squinted and his mouth cracked into a huge smile as he waved enthusiastically. "Mr. Booker! Mr. Booker! Good morning! I haven't seen you in ages!"

The elderly man going down the sidewalk stared at Alfred. "What the hell are you talking about, boy? You saw me yesterday!" He waddled away, muttering, "Stupid kid…"

Ivan raised his finger to his lips worriedly. He understood that 1960 was probably sentimental for Alfred, but now he was just being ridiculous. "Alfred, you do not want to wake up America."

Alfred started. "Oh," he whispered. "Right. I remember." Suddenly, Ivan felt the anxiety of ten million doubts popping out of his chest, or maybe that was his heart coming out again, which he hoped wasn't the case. But he would just stay quiet for the time being. "Ivan, we're going to leave through here. You can catch me and the kids when we come down, okay?"

"Yes. But what are we going to do after we get our kids?"

Alfred pondered for a moment. "We fly to England and ask the 1960 Iggy to help us get back!"

"Sure, we can do that—" _Wait, what did he say?_ "Alfred, that is the worst plan I have—"

The blond carefully slid the window up and put a foot inside. Ivan couldn't help but feel that there was a person watching him from behind. His hand went inside his coat and grasped the metal pipe, prepared to whip it out and swing it. But he wouldn't turn around, or even show any sorts of belligerency until Alfred returned. After all, that would only make things more complicated if there really were someone spying on him.

* * *

_Five minutes later, Adrian and Mikhail's room…_

Mikhail had tumbled between his sheets the entire night until he finally rolled off the bed and woke up. Alfred's bed sucked; it was springy and it felt like sleeping on a rock. He even remembered a dream where Aloisa was running after him with a knife and screaming something or the other about gelato. He crawled to Adrian's alcove and was about to wake him when the balcony window snapped open, a looming shadow beyond the window draperies.

Mikhail frantically shook his brother, whispering loudly, "Wake up! There is a burglar by your window. Wake up, wake up—" If there was a book or any heavy objects nearby, Mikhail would've picked it up to chuck at the intruder, but all he saw were pillows and more pillows.

Adrian rubbed his eyes. It was still dark and warm inside the room. "What is it? What time is it?"

Mikhail had the sudden urge to slap Adrian silly, but he squashed the feeling down. "There is a thief! A burglar! He is coming inside from your window—oh God!"

A foot came in from outside and stepped on Adrian, who gave a surprised wheeze and fell off the alcove, along with the intruder, who lost his footing and somewhat landed on Adrian.

Mikhail let out a relieved exhale. "Oh, it's only Mr. Jones. I thought it was—"

Alfred gathered Mikhail into a hug. "Mikhail! I found you two! That was easier than I thought!"

Adrian squirmed out from under Alfred and straightened his clothes. "What's going on?" _And what the hell are you doing, coming in our room through the balcony? I would call that rude! Did you wake us up this early just to look for our non-existent parents—_

Alfred grabbed Adrian, too, and forced him to join the hug. "I thought you boys would end up in a gutter somewhere, but it's a good thing you didn't—"

From out the streets, Alfred and the kids heard a familiar tone hissing, "Alfred! Hurry up! The lights downstairs are turning on!"

Adrian stammered, "Was that the Soviet Union?" _Weren't we running away from him yesterday?_

The blond slid back out the window, with much more dexterity than how he'd come in. "Soviet Union? That's your dad, Adrian. Mikhail, let's go, we're going to wake the whole neighborhood at this rate."

"_Mom_?" Oh my God. The boys would've been frozen in shock if not for the fact that they heard noise downstairs. They followed Alfred through the windows excitedly and onto the balcony. "And there's Dad! How'd you two get here—"

"If we told you right now we'll sound like we've lost our minds. You first, Mikhail, jump down."

"D-down?"

Alfred laughed softly, "Don't be such a kid. Dad will catch you."

Ivan raised his arms. "Mikhail! Перейди!" He felt a creepy aura extending from elsewhere, and for once he was sure it didn't come from his sister or him. _Natalia must be looking for me by now… _

"That's kind of high—_agh_!"

With a helpful push from Alfred, Mikhail sailed downwards with a squeak and landed in his dad's arms. Alfred smiled at his other son. "Would you like to go by yourself or do you need help?"

Alfred was using his mommy-voice, as if Adrian was a toddler who had trouble going to the potty by himself. Adrian glanced at the alcove, wondering if he should take the Fair Copy along when Alfred shoved him over the railing.

Alfred climbed down nimbly and put both hands on his waist. "That was easy! Another task accomplished by the hero and his sidekick—"

The front door slammed open, revealing an already-dressed America holding a cup of steaming coffee; he instantly flared up when he saw Ivan, shrieking, "_You_! A-and—" His eyes widened and the coffee mug spilt into pieces on the cement as it dropped from his hands. "And m-me."

Ivan pushed his sons behind him but was restrained by Alfred, who pointed behind. There was 1960 Russia, his pipe clenched in his gloved hands, staring at Ivan in a manner in which one might stare at a deformed museum specimen.

America reached out to the teens instantly. "Adrian! Michael! Come here! Those two are imposters!" The pictures from last night were inside his pocket, a lingering memory of doubt that tugged at his mind ever so often.

Russia raised his pipe threateningly and took one step closer to Ivan. "America…it is quite interesting how your citizens like to dress up as us."

"They're your people, commie! I don't know who _they_ are!" He beckoned once more to Adrian and Mikhail, "Guys, come over here!"

Ivan leaned towards Alfred, his hands gripping his sons' shoulder. "What do you propose we do now?"

Alfred smacked his lips nervously at his past self and the Soviet Union. "We…run."

* * *

_November 28, 1960, Francis's house, 10:13 A.M…_

Evangeline stabbed at her last slice of strawberry and took a tiny bite. She'd actually fashioned a decent meal out of the few supplies France had, which was strange, since her dad never ran out of food in the fridge. But the shortage explained why the Frenchman's face was so pale and his once sharp blue eyes dull and lifeless. France and Evangeline ate their breakfast in silence, with Evangeline staring nervously at her toast and France reading the news. It wasn't that she felt awkward eating with her dad, but this _wasn't_ her dad.

France folded the newspaper and set it on the corner of the table. His coffee half-finished, he looked a great deal more sober, which Evangeline didn't know if it was good or bad for her. "Where did you say you were from?"

She spoke without thinking, "England." When she saw France's displeased expression, she added, "But I came to visit my Aunt who lives in France."

France brightened a fraction of an inch. "Really? Where does she live? Perhaps we can deliver you to your Aunt, and there you can find your brother."

"She lives in Paris."

"And where is she currently? Paris is quite far from Strasbourg, I can't imagine how you would've got here—"

Evangeline almost choked on her tea. She had led herself into her own trap. "She…she died. We came for her funeral." That didn't make any sense at all, but France bought it.

"Oh." He pursed his lips. "I apologize."

"No, no, we barely knew her—a-ah…I mean, she was very dear to us. But we were somewhat distant…"

"I see."

Evangeline's fork clattered on her plate. "Mr. Bonnefoy, may I stay in your house until I find my brother?" She was being too bold, but she knew her dad could not really help her. What she needed was her mother, and France must have some way to contact him.

France smirked knowingly. "You aren't afraid to stay with a stranger?"

"No."

He leaned across the table, and Evangeline scooted her chair backwards. "You're not afraid I might do something to you, _ma cherie_?"

The girl was about to slam her palms right in France's nose, but she restrained herself. "I know you wouldn't." …or did she?

France gave her a bored stare as he retreated. "You are right. But you do look so much like someone I know…"

_He means Mum_, Evangeline thought. But the way France's trailed off wistfully…it was as if that one person was the only one he could not have. "I'm honored."

His face morphed into a stormy expression. "Don't be." He carried her empty plate back into the kitchen, his frown stony. "We will head out to town in a minute."

And Evangeline couldn't help but wonder what had happened between Arthur and her father.

* * *

_November 29, 1960, London, outside of James's school, 2:38 P.M…_

Alec felt like a fool. He had completely miscalculated. England was kind enough to let him stay at his house until he found his sister or his parents or whatever he told him (but only because Alec acted like a total sap), and CND protestors had blocked each street which further delayed the fake searching, but he didn't find his _Maman'_s spell book. England had been watching him the entire time, and the only way he actually did some serious snooping was when the nation went into the shower. Even then he had trouble finding things; most doors were locked, save for guest bedrooms. And the house was enormous: three stories high spread out over two acres of land, complete with a blooming garden and picnic area. It was as if hidden behind the smoky, industrial London was England's magical storybook mansion. It was beautiful, sure, Alec would probably want to get married in England's backyard, but it added to the hassle of searching.

As they were eating dinner last night (Alec didn't remember what it was, and he didn't think he wanted to), England had been distracted by the bouquet of roses he'd put in a vase. Next to the roses Alec had spotted an opened letter; he'd asked about it, but England became all defensive and later avoided the topic altogether. At the dinner table, Alec could tell he was devastated; earlier in the afternoon England had to make a phone call to America to tell him he wouldn't be able to make it over that day. Alec felt guilty, but he shook the mental accusations away. Alec hoped he didn't do anything to screw up his parent's relationship, because he wasn't sure if he'd even exist if America and England got together.

Alec had peeked at the letter when England had gone to bed. He had waited until one in the morning to tiptoe on creaky stairs down to the first floor with only the aid of a heavyset flashlight he found in his drawer. It was mail, an invitation, rather, from Francis Bonnefoy to Arthur Kirkland, inquiring if '_Angleterre_ would be so kind as to join him at the Christmas market in Strasbourg.' The letter had been sent over a week ago, and England hadn't responded. But him keeping it and not recycling it meant that Alec had a second chance to mend whatever he messed up. But…

…but he couldn't forge his _Maman_'s handwriting well enough to send it. Even if he had, England still wouldn't go and France would be thoroughly disappointed and lose all respect (however much he has left for him, anyways) for England. So Alec left it there next to the roses, hoping that the next time England gazed at America's gift he would remember a certain Frenchman…

Once again, that was another silly wish. He had a silly wish to find a spell book and return home, and now he was waiting outside of James's school after another morning and afternoon of 'searching' with England. He had requested a break, and England agreed and gave him the house keys because he had to make a short run to his office. Alec thought that was a little too trusting, but perhaps the reason England wasn't afraid was because he had other magical guards to prevent theft. Or maybe he suspected Alec…

The bell rang, a shrill, screeching sound, not unlike Alec's own high school dismissal bell. He was never one to break promises (although several others have broken _his_ promises), but he hoped that James couldn't find him and so Alec could leave without feeling guilty—again. He sat down on the top step of a wide, stone stairway outdoors, watching the other children go by. This was the other side of the school, far, far way from the main entrance, but Alec saw teenagers in uniforms streaming in his direction and leaving school through the stairway he was sitting on.

Just as Alec thought about relocating, a hand grabbed his shoulder, the owner's low, smooth voice breathing next to Alec's ear. "And who might this pretty doll be? Care to tell us?"

And Alec realized that no matter where he moved, he would be the most distinguishable because he was the only one not wearing a uniform. He slowly swiveled his head to meet a thin, handsome face, but not in the nicest of ways. There was something self-centered and elfish about this boy's face. Behind him was a gang of five teenage boys who looked likewise and two stupid, doe-eyed girls clinging to their arms, giggling. The wave of other students seemed to veer around this particular group and gave him looks of sympathy and fear when they saw Alec and the boy.

Alec stood up and removed the boy's hand from his shoulder. "No. I apologize, but you are not the one I'm waiting for." Okay, that had come out wrong. It made him sound like he _wanted_ to see James when he would much rather follow England to his office.

One girl gasped dramatically from the back and cried, "But he's Charles! Haven't you heard of him?"

"Uh, no, not really. If you'll excuse me—"

Unknowingly, Charles's arm had snaked around his Alec. "You're not from around, are you? I'll take you for a walk around the campus…" _God, he looks like a girl, a real pretty one at that…_

Ew. James Stanton and even Adrian had tried that. Worst. Move. Ever. Alec poked Charles's forehead back with one finger. "No, thank you."

Charles grabbed Alec's arm and leaned forward. "Are you sure?"

Alec wormed around, but Charles had this insane steel-like grip. _Am I the only one without a grip like that?_ "Yes, I'm very sure—"

"Charles! What are you doing?" James Chase strode over to them, looking smart and sharp in his blue uniform, and the group instantly backed off.

The boy immediately released Alec. "Nothing."

"Like hell that's nothing," James snapped. "I've told you again and again not to intimidate lowerclassmen when I'm not here. Which student are you harassing this time…?" His eyes almost looked as big as those doe-eyed girls, and just as stupidly happy. "_Alec_? So you did wait!"

Charles mouth dropped as James nearly dropped his books to hold Alec's hand. Alec stood uncomfortably and untangled his fingers from James's grasp. "I guess I did…"

The elfish boy sputtered and pointed to Alec, all his former artificial charms gone. "You know him? H-how—" Why was it that every time he saw a pretty girl or someone like Alec James always seemed to know them? James hadn't been serious with the other girls, but he looked serious about Alec… "What about Jane?" Charles shouted after James, who had gone down the stairs with an uncertain Alec. "I thought you wanted to talk to her—"

And James had turned around to make a fierce gesture at Charles; using one finger, he sliced the air in front of his neck and glowered. He smiled back at Alec as Charles fell back with his gang, totally confused. The previous school year and the beginning of this school year to last week, James had been going nuts over Jane and cutting classes just to buy her flowers and such. He'd been in a lousy mood the whole time too, not too different from what he usually was; and he and Charles had had a grand time scaring off those uppity first years as a way to ventilate that anger.

But today…today he was utterly changed, as if he had gone from school misfit to model student overnight. He'd even told Charles to lay off an underclassmen Charles knew that James found irritating. He did not skip any of his classes, and did not shout across the classroom to Charles like he usually did. He did not talk with any of the girls, and he did not question the teacher's authority, not once. And most of all, he replied, "No, I don't think she likes me, might as well give up," when Charles asked about going after Jane.

It must have something to do with the doll. Alec…that was his name. Charles motioned for the rest of his group to leave. He had decided: he was going to tail after the two and find out what the hell the doll did to change James so much.

* * *

_November 29, present, Evangeline's house, dining room, 4:24 P.M…_

The doorbell had rung five or six times before anyone opened the door. Just a few minutes ago, Arthur had been testing the mirror frame again, with poor results. Instead of a portal appearing, the wood started to smolder and Francis had to open all the windows.

Yukiko answered the door and was greeted by Annelise, who flung herself on the girl. "Anne!" Yukiko exclaimed. "What are you doing here—oh, hello, Norway…" Yukiko trailed off, for Norway's face was iffier than ever.

Annelise whispered in Yukiko's ear, "Mom's kind of mad at us."

"Why—?"

Francis reached the blond before Arthur; he opened his arms and cried, "_Mon cher_! I haven't seen you in such a long tim—_ugh_." The Frenchman doubled over in pain after Norway dealt a jolting blow to his stomach. He gave Francis an ugly look before moving to the dining room.

Denmark, carrying luggage and Eirik, walked over to Francis and patted his back. Eirik hopped down from his dad's shoulder and greeted Yukiko. "Sorry about that," Denmark began. "Nor isn't in such a great mood—"

Arthur waved to Norway and pointed at the mirror. "I told you about this on the phone. We tried to work it again, but it wouldn't let us—wait, what's Denmark doing here?"

Norway's expression didn't change. "He followed me to the airport."

"You didn't tell me where you where going!" called Denmark from the living room.

"I left a note on the table," he said, his frown getting darker. "So what do you want me to do?"

"We were hoping you could, um, open a portal to 1960?" Arthur laughed nervously. "If that's…you know…okay with you and all…"

Norway gaped, as if he thought the reason was idiotic. "You called me over for that?"

"We think it's broken—"

The blond sighed and slapped a hand to the mirror frame, which began to fill with white light again, as easily as anything. "When you are ready to come back you have to find a receiver frame to alert me, and I'll open it for you."

Arthur stuttered, "How did you do that…?"

"Because he's smarter than you!" Lovino suggested.

"Go in then." Norway gestured with his other hand. "Don't worry, I'll stay here however long you need me to with _Japan_—" He threw a dirty look at Denmark, who gulped.

Arthur's face got red. "Say that again, Italy, and I'll stuff your face full of scones—"

"Ve, it wasn't me…"

"You can't even tell us apart—"

"Ah, Lovi! Get off of Arthur—"

"Don't tell me what to do, tomato bastard!"

Norway just stared blankly at the fight breaking out in front of him. He wondered if having children turned them paranoid, or if they were always like this and he was the one missing out on everything.

* * *

_Outside Evangeline's house…_

Gilbert had finally returned after his second visit to Canada, and he'd stopped by the bar he usually visited before going home. Being the generous person he was, he'd remembered Ludwig and brought his brother two packs of beer…well, one pack was for him, but West should still appreciate it. He thought he might take a shortcut this time, but with twenty-seven mugs of beer clogging up his brain (sometimes Gilbert wondered how many rounds it would take for him to really collapse from alcohol poisoning) he'd gotten lost and wandered into a private neighborhood.

So here he was, walking down a street looking like a stalker, when he spied a house with its door wide open and lights shining from inside. He squinted and grinned; it was a party! He could see shadows of people dancing inside…well, one more addition, especially one as awesome as him, would never hurt!

Gilbert crashed into the house, his arm laden with his beer and souvenirs from Canada, and was about to scream along with the music when he realized there was no music. And there were no promiscuously dressed teenagers dancing to the music, no anything. All he saw was Francis trying to peel Lovino off of Arthur's back and Norway standing stiffly next to that light holographic thingy he was about to jump in.

"Oh, okay. I'll just leave. 'Cause I thought this was a party—"

Ludwig shuffled out of the crowd. "_Bruder_? You're back already? What are you doing here?"

Gilbert held up his souvenirs defensively and took a wary step backwards. "I know, I know, I lied about the plane delay, I was getting a drink at the bar, but I brought some really cool gifts for Aloisa so she wouldn't get mad at me—ah!" With another step backwards, Gilbert toppled into the portal, Canadian souvenirs and all.

"_Gilbert_!" Ludwig turned to Norway, "Why didn't you stop him?"

He shrugged, as surprised as Ludwig, although he preferred to not show it. "I didn't think he'd be stupid enough to fall."

"Well, he is!"

Feliciano dove into the mirror frame as if he were swimming. "Don't worry, Ludwig, I got him!"

"No, don't—"

"Hey, don't let my brother leave without me, potato bastard—"

"Stop bloody pushing me—"

"I will come along, too, _mon cher_~"

Norway shot a meaningful glance at Denmark. Opening the portal wasn't the hard part, but keeping it up was; he could feel his arm starting to strain against an unknown pressure. "If you push them all in," he sighed, "you may stay here with me."

Denmark didn't need to be told twice. He barreled to the group and sent them flying inside the portal. Norway removed his hand and the light disappeared with a pop. He didn't know why Arthur even called him over, it wasn't like the mirror was difficult to open. He'd expected something more puzzling, but…

Kiku blinked. Then he put his hand on his forehead and retreated into the kitchen. "I-I'll make us something to eat…" The day had been too rushed for his liking. Everyone had been shouting and fighting a few hours ago. He worried about the nations' wellbeing, but nonetheless, he enjoyed the peace and quiet.

Annelise tugged at her father's shirt. "Do you think they'll be alright?"

"I have no idea, Anne…" He looked at his daughter solemnly before breaking out into a grin. "Well, as long as they have Gilbert I'm sure they'll be fine. Let's go see what England has in his kitchen, Eirik."

"How did you work the mirror frame?" Yukiko asked, after the three had left. "We had trouble getting America and Russia and Miss Natalia through the portal, yet you…"

Norway didn't respond immediately. He put his finger to his lips in thought and stared off into the distance. There was something peculiar about the mirror, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe I was just lucky."

Yukiko took a seat and gazed at the mahogany frame. She hoped she imagined it when she saw it pulsate. "Maybe."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Thank you all for the reviews/favs/alerts! Here's a chapter before I get swamped by schoolwork again. oTL**

**Mistranslations are by Google Translate. Sp/grammatical errors and DM linked words will be fixed after publication. **

**Connecting the Dots doujinshi: **Made by Jyro! Cover art and first page is up! **h t t p :/ staneshiftthewolf. deviantart. com/#/ d3615gl** (link also on my profile.) She's been working so hard on it (her fingers are probably half-killed by now ;A; I'm sorry!), and I think she did a beautiful job! Has a Mature Content warning (though there's really nothing inappropriate on the first page), so make an account. I'm not sure if they're all going to have a warning or not…XD

**Notes: **-Sidestory 'It Saved Me' (inspired by the song by Christina Courtin) is being revised. Because I'm having difficulty finding the full lyrics, I transcribed most of the lyrics myself (and they may or may not be correct). If you guys see the full lyrics, please tell me, 'cause that'd help a lot. Thanks! :)

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

_November 29, 1960, Manhattan, New York, 10:14 A.M…_

Alfred and Ivan pushed Adrian and Mikhail onwards, the four of them partly running and partly sliding on the ice-glazed sidewalk. They could hear America and Russia sprinting right behind them, America shouting for Adrian and 'Michael' and Russia bringing with him a gust of unnatural cold wherever he went. They had to get rid of them fast. Alfred was almost certain that Russia would clobber them to death, and then clobber his past self after he was finished with them. There were few civilians in the streets, for most had gone to school or work hours ago.

"Turn left!" Alfred called. "There's a shortcut we can take—"

The blond stopped abruptly, almost making Ivan crash into him. "What is the matter, Alfr—"

He saw the problem: there was a seven-foot-tall wire fence cutting off the alley. But it wasn't a dead-end; Ivan could see the alley led to another road that Alfred probably meant for them to go.

The American was stunned. "When did this get here…?"

The footsteps were getting closer. Ivan glanced upwards and said, "They did not take it down yet, Alfred. We cannot go back, start climbing!" Ivan surged forward and practically tossed Mikhail and Adrian halfway up the fence, where they clung to the wire and scrambled up.

Ivan turned back. "Alfred—"

America and Russia had finally caught up to them, both men panting from the short run and glaring at Alfred. America laughed, a short, choppy sound. "You think you could run away from me in my home? Well, you've reached a dead end, boys. If you were going to kidnap the children, I would've thought Braginski's people knew how to do it better—"

Russia growled menacingly. "How many times do I have to tell you that these are not my citizens?" He raised his water pipe. "Would you care to tell us your names now?"

Ivan reached behind him to push Alfred back, but America had darted past him like an arrow and pinned Alfred to the snow. The America in this era had frightening agility and speed that could probably match Natalia, but Ivan had little time to ponder this as he narrowly dodged his past self's attack with his own pipe.

The two blonds stared at each other with identical blue eyes, both glowering. America drew his gun from inside his bomber jacket and pointed it at Alfred's forehead. "Ready to tell me who you are now, _commie_?"

Mikhail had hopped over the fence and was waiting to catch Adrian, who was about to cross over, but he stopped and yelled at Alfred just as America pressed the tip of his gun on the blond, "Mom!"

Ivan was being held against the wall by the Soviet Union, the pipe under his throat. He'd taken one wrong step and allowed Russia to attack through an opening. He had never fought with anyone that could match his strength, but then again, he'd never thought he'd fight with himself, literally. "Go, Adrian! We'll catch up!" When the boy did not respond, Ivan shouted at his other son. "Mikhail! Get him down from there!"

Mikhail started and rattled the fence, making Adrian lose his balance, although the boy held on at the last minute. "What the hell, Mikhail!"

"Get down!"

"I have to help Mom!"

Mikhail shook the fence again hoping his brother would fall (on the right side, too), this time more urgently. "What good will you do?"

America's concentration wavered, and his grip on the gun loosened. "W-why did they call you Mom?"

Alfred swatted the gun and the two watched it slide away on the icy cement. Alfred thought he surprised America, but the latter pulled out a switchblade and slammed it into the concrete with shocking strength. The knife left a long scratch on Alfred's left cheek as it imbedded itself next to Alfred's head.

He could feel the sharp sting building up into a throbbing pain, though he ignored it to scream at Adrian, "_Run_!"

America grabbed Alfred's cheeks and wrenched it so he could look at him in the eye. "I am not afraid to use this. So it would be best for both of us if you'd tell me something." He leaned in, scowling. "_Why did they call you Mom?_"

* * *

_Five minutes ago, rooftop…_

Natalia finished carving a stick figure picture of Adrian and Mikhail in the snow with her knife. She'd been doing that for the past few minutes, after she scouted her surroundings for America and her big brother. She figured it would be best to survey the city from a high location, so she scaled a building and waited. The building she was currently on top of was an apartment, five-stories high, with an alley separating it from the next building. She could see a trail of taxis not too far away, waiting to pick up angry businessmen and tourists.

She was about to scratch out another picture (she was thinking herself and her big brother in a chapel) when a racket down below alerted her. She stood up, her green and red dress flapping in the wind, and saw her brother, America, and her dear nephews running into the alley, being chased by…themselves.

She rubbed her eyes; nope, she wasn't seeing double. The one in the bomber jacket and tan overcoat was the 1960 America and Russia. Apparently America had more agility than he did nowadays, for he'd quickly pinned his future self down without too much of a struggle. Natalia was watching in satisfaction and wondering if she should help America when she heard Adrian shout at his mother.

Natalia bit her lip. She couldn't let Adrian fend off 1960 America, he'd certainly get knifed in the guts. With a sigh and a heavy hand, she took out the three daggers strapped to her thigh and aimed it at the wall so that it would barely miss America's head. _Alfred F. Jones had better appreciate this_, she thought before she jumped down.

* * *

_Five minutes later, in the alley… _

America clamped his gloved hands on Alfred's throat, his second switchblade poised. "Still not talking? Why don't you—"

Ivan kicked at Russia's stomach and threw the pipe away, but it was a stupid idea to physically attack his past self. His own stomach began to throb with a dull pain from where he'd hurt Russia. "Alfred!" he shouted. "What are you doing?"

Alfred scratched at America's hand, coughing. "What the hell do you think I'm doing?"

America looked up, surprised that Alfred had answered. "Why did you—"

Ivan was about to knock America off of Alfred, but just then he heard the familiar whistling sound of knife cutting through air. He barely had any time to duck when Natalia's first three knives came sailing from above. They lodged themselves between the seams of the brick building and twanged there. America rolled away and stared at the daggers, allowing Ivan to successfully whisk Alfred away.

"Who's up there?" he yelled, but started when Natalia hopped in front of him, knives in hand and ready to throw.

She looked at Ivan and nodded. "I will catch up, Big Brother."

Russia got up from the snow and his mouth dropped. "Belarus…so you did follow me…" he whispered. "What…what are you doing?"

Natalia lowered her lashes at her brother's past self. No…she couldn't bring herself to hurt him, this was ridiculous. Past or present, this was still her big brother—

Adrian thought he would've died from a heart attack when Natalia appeared. He braced himself and called over to her, "Thank you, Aunt Natalia!" It was the least he could do.

Ivan slung Alfred over his shoulders and ran to the wire fence. "Adrian! Get down from there!"

"Ivan, I swear, if you throw me over the fence—_ahh_!"

Natalia clutched her weapons again. She wasn't doing this for Alfred, she was helping Adrian and Mikhail. With that thought in mind, she charged America while Russia observed in terror. She couldn't kill them or even harm them; she only needed to detain them for a while…

No matter how quick or nimble America was in the 60s, Natalia was faster. She chucked knife after knife on the ground right in front of America's feet and drove him back, away from the fence. She watched her nephews disappear as they turned a corner and pocketed the knives she had on hand.

She smiled at Russia, who was too alarmed to respond. "I must leave, Big Brother, but I will see you soon."

America and Russia watched her scale the fence and easily lift herself over to the other side. Russia dislodged a knife that was caught in between a pile of snow and read the inscription stamped into the blade, _Natalia Arlovskaya_.

Unwillingly, Russia turned to the blond. "This is no longer a small matter. We must go after my sister and _them_."

America reached inside his jacket pocket and touched the photos. They weren't Russia's, he understood now. When he saw his other self and the other Russia running alongside the boys, he had the feeling that…_they_ were the people in the picture. Him and Braginski. It wasn't a hoax after all. But he was sure that he'd remember if he'd taken a photo, especially with Braginski of all people. The only reason he'd stand next to Russia like that for a photo was if England was being held hostage or something…

This will be the one and only time he would work with Braginski, America decided. _For the sake of Adrian and Michael. _He stuffed the crumpled pictures further inside his pocket and replied simply, "Yes."

He didn't know what else to say to Braginski. This was the first time the Russian appeared sincerely shocked.

* * *

_November 28, 1960, Munich, West Germany, 2:31 P.M…_

Aloisa and Felicita sat awkwardly in the dining room, watching Italy cook pasta for them. Prussia had left Italy the house keys when someone named Toris arrived to bring him back to Russia. Apparently, this Toris had lost contact with a Mr. Braginski and had no idea when he was returning, so he felt insecure and came to alert Prussia.

"But you haven't even seen Ludwig, ve! He'll be so disappointed!" Italy had argued.

"No he won't. He went out early in the morning to pick up something, so he doesn't even know I'm here." He'd briefly kissed Italy's forehead, as if he was the big brother going off to war. Aloisa thought that sounded strange, even in her mind, but in this dreary sixties atmosphere it wasn't hard to imagine that. "Take care of West for me, will you? Until I come back."

Italy had stared at him with big, frightened eyes. "I will try, but he ha—"

"He doesn't," Prussia had countered firmly. "And he never will. He's being ridiculous, that's all."

That was the first time Aloisa had ever heard her _Onkel_ Gilbert speak sentences without adding the word 'awesome' or his weird laugh in them. She was irritated by those additions, but it felt worse not hearing them.

"Is it okay for us to be here?" Aloisa had asked Prussia before he left.

And he'd paused and breathed, "Of course." But he didn't sound like he believed it himself.

Felicita got up from her seat and wandered to the living room, though Aloisa threw her a look she couldn't quite interpret. Overall, the house was clean and kept in order, but Felicita got hit by a pang of loneliness when she walked in; the house was huge and had a beautiful brick fireplace, but it looked as if it hadn't been lit for ages and it seemed to be sucking the heat from the room.

She spotted a small black-and-white photo on the carpet half hidden under the couch as she peeked around. She dusted it carefully and gazed at the image of Aloisa's parents, who appeared quite battered in their World War Two military uniforms. They were in an office, with Ludwig sitting at the desk signing papers and Feliciano leaning against the window staring outside wistfully. The two men weren't looking at the camera, as if whoever took it did it secretly; on the back in neat handwriting was the year: _1943_. Felicita glanced at Italy to make sure he wasn't looking at her and pocketed the photo. She had a feeling she should show Aloisa this particular picture, but not in front of Italy.

"Where did your friend go, Aloisa?" she heard Italy say.

"I'm right here," Felicita replied. "Just, um, looking for the restroom."

"Down the hall, to the right, it's—"

Felicita hurried back and slid into her seat. "I found it."

Italy turned around, holding two heaping plates of pasta covered in thick tomato sauce. "It's already past noon, you girls must be hungry." He saw Felicita poke at it suspiciously with her fork and smiled slightly. "Don't worry, I didn't slip anything inside, in case you're wondering."

Her fork clattered on the table. "I-I'm sorry. I wasn't—"

"It's alright," he said, taking the gift box on the table and fiddling with its ribbons. "You know, I made this for Ludwig. But I'm afraid he won't accept it."

"Why not?" Aloisa asked boldly. Her mom's cooking was just as delicious as she remembered, but she didn't have the stomach right now.

He sighed. "It's been a hard time for Ludwig. His brother, Gilbert, the one that just left, wasn't supposed to be here. He lives in East Germany, but I really thought…" Italy's eyes glazed over. "I really thought he'd come here to go to the Christmas market with Ludwig. He's never missed a Christmas market before…"

"Then you can go," Aloisa said. "Go with Ludwig." It felt strange calling her Vati by his first name.

Italy shook his head rapidly. "I can't, he doesn't want me there, I'm already pushing it by staying here—"

Aloisa tried to shoo Blackie and Aster, who were under the table nipping at her jeans, by swinging her legs, but they wouldn't budge. The stayed quiet, for they knew Berlitz would come rushing back if they made a commotion; they were happy, however, since they'd finally found a new playmate. "Gilbert said Ludwig was just being ridiculous. I'm sure whatever Ludwig did he didn't mean it."

Felicita plucked a meatball from her plate and tossed it on the ground when Italy wasn't looking. Aster and Blackie immediately ran after it, jumping on top of each other to reach the morsel. So they'd been playing around with the wrong person, the dogs thought. The girl with brown hair, she was the one that was willing to play with them! Felicita had thrown the meatball so the dogs would stop bothering Aloisa, but once Blackie guzzled it down he began worming in and out of Felicita's chair, whining at her for attention.

Italy rested his head on his hands. "They sure seem to like you."

Felicita looked up. "I guess so," she said. "They're…friendly…I hope…" Her fear of dogs had only intensified due to her first visit to Aloisa's house, where Blackie (or was it Berlitz?) had practically jumped her.

"They hate me," Italy said flatly. "They get vicious when Ludwig's around, like they want to protect him. This is the first time I've seen them like this." He turned back to Aloisa. "I know you're trying to make me feel better, but I'm a lot older than I look, and I've been around Ludwig for such a long time…I know he doesn't want he around—"

Aloisa shot out bluntly, "He's lying. He doesn't know what he's saying." Her Vati could never stay mad at her mom (_though he pretends to_, Aloisa thought). All her mom had to do was frown and her Vati would give in to whatever he wanted (which normally involved Ludwig having to play soccer with Feliciano). But then again, Feliciano often had to pester Ludwig for a couple of minutes before he agreed—even so, it was only a few minutes!

Italy's expression softened. "Aloisa…"

The front door creaked open and Italy stood up, his chair making a squeaky noise as it got pushed back. Slowly and with some difficulty, a young blond man limped inside, followed by Berlitz. He couldn't have been more than twenty five, yet when he looked up at Aloisa, his gaze was dark and sullen, as if he'd seen too many things he'd never wanted to see. His briefcase that was tucked under his arm nearly fell when he froze in place, staring at the girls, then Italy.

"What are you doing here?"

Italy winced. "I-I…"

Germany's eyes hardened. "Who let you in?"

Italy bit his lip, his hand shaking. "I wanted to—"

"I let us in," Aloisa cut in. Felicita threw her a what-for look while Aloisa just watched Germany's expression morph from mildly angry to surprise. She couldn't let her mom handle this, not with her Vati glaring him down like that. "I had Aster go in through the dog door to get the keys."

The Golden Retriever lowered his head and whined mournfully. Whatever the blond girl had said was making his master and Berlitz glower at him. Aloisa continued, "I met Feliciano on the way. We're from America, and we can't find my parents, so we were hoping you could—"

"No."

Aloisa stopped. "Excuse me?"

The blond man hung up his coat and set his briefcase on the couch. "I have no time to deal with tourists. I'm sorry, but I don't think I can be of any help. Now Ita—Feliciano." He took a long, quiet stare at the Italian. "I don't recall inviting you here. Please take the girls and leave."

Italy raised his hand hesitantly. "But Ludwig—"

"_Leave_!" He turned away from the girls as he kicked off his shoes so that only his profile could be seen.

That one short outburst was enough to have blown Aloisa's mind to shreds. He was absolutely furious, not even faking it; he was breathing hard and his brow furrowed together. His lips were a thin, angry line, his hands clenched into fists. But Aloisa had never heard Ludwig yell at Feliciano. Felicita felt Aloisa trembling next to her. She moved a step away and nearly tripped over Blackie, who wouldn't stop following her.

And at that moment, Aloisa thought her brain snapped. She turned on Ludwig, enraged beyond belief and shouted right back him, not caring if Italy thought her impolite, not caring if her cover was blown. "Don't talk to him that way! Turn around and look at me!"

Germany did so, but only because he was shocked. "You—"

She could see a miniature scar at the corner of Germany's forehead. He looked so forlorn Aloisa was almost sorry to be yelling at him; for a minute she thought this was her dad, but no. This Ludwig was just…Germany. "We'll leave, if that's what you want, but you don't ever, _ever_ speak to him like that again, Vati! I mean it!"

She couldn't figure out why Felicita was making these quick gestures at her, and why Germany was looking at her as if she'd sprouted a second head—

Germany took a small step forward. "What did you call me?"

Oh.

Oh shit.

"Nothing," she finished lamely.

"You did say something." His expression had become neutral, and was peering at her in an interested manner. "What did you say your name was?"

Aloisa gulped. "I'm Aloisa, and that's my cousin Felicita—"

"Your _full_ name."

Felicita shook her head frantically at Aloisa. _If we told them who we really are, they'll think we're lunatics! And we'll screw up the timeline, or something like that… _

Aloisa went on ahead, despite the looks Germany was giving her. "My name is Aloisa Be—"

But just when Aloisa was about to admit to Germany her real name, Berlitz chomped down on Germany's leg. The man gave a cry of pain and tried to shake the Doberman off, but he wasn't letting go. Aster and Blackie watched the dogs actually disobey his master, which was a first for him. They didn't dare to join in, but they remained immobile on the carpet, not knowing what Berlitz's motives were.

"Get off, Berlitz! _Platz_!"

But Berlitz didn't let go. The man may have been his master for years and years and years, but he didn't like the way he looked at the blond girl.

Aloisa, driven by habit, instantly called out to the dog, "_Aus_, Berlitz!"

Berlitz's ears perked up, alert. He released Germany's leg and sat tall and proud, his round eyes trained on Aloisa. Perhaps he had attacked at the wrong time, Berlitz thought.

Italy regarded Aloisa with awe. "How did you…?"

Germany gaped, his mouth closing and opening in a comical fashion, and Aloisa would've laughed if she didn't know better. "You speak German?"

"Not really," she replied. "My dad is Germany—I mean, he's German. But I take Italian classes." Ugh, she'd slipped again, but luckily Germany didn't seem to see that as a big deal.

"And you live in America."

She nodded. "California."

"So you two are tourists."

"Uh…we used to live here, but we moved a long time ago…We're here, um, sightseeing."

"If your dad is German, then it might be easier for me to find him. Have you alerted the police?"

Felicita interrupted, in case Aloisa said something that didn't make sense. "Yes, we did. And they couldn't do much for us. We found Feliciano, though."

Germany seemed to be pondering. Aloisa hoped he forgot that she'd accidently called him dad. "I'll help you girls, but not today. Is tomorrow okay? You may stay in the guest bedrooms. Besides…I have something I want to ask of you…"

_Damn. He's still thinking about that_, Aloisa thought, her heart racing. _But I persuaded him, so we're fine for now…right? _"It's fine. But Feliciano has to stay, too."

His eyebrow shot up. "Feliciano? Why?"

"He brought us here, and he wants to help us."

Feliciano brought his hands to his mouth. "Oh no, Aloisa, that's—"

"—exactly what you want! Please, Mr. Ludwig."

"…alright."

Aloisa and Felicita gave a mental sigh. If they had another day like today again they were sure they'd have a heart attack. But Germany, despite agreeing to Aloisa's requests, was staring at Italy uncertainly. Then followed an awkward moment of silence until Aster jumped on the dining room chair and buried his face in Felicita's plate of pasta, now cold and somewhat congealed into a mass of goop.

As Germany tried to carry Aster away and Italy the plates, Aloisa was almost fooled into thinking that they were back in her house in the present. She could nearly pretend that it was dinnertime, her Vati had just come home from work (or whatever he really did, Aloisa never quite found out), and Felicita had come over for dinner. It even ended with Aster digging into her unfinished plate, which was what he usually did.

Aloisa was jarred out of her trance when Berlitz bit her ankle gently, as if in an attempt to bring her back.

* * *

_November 29, present, Evangeline's house, dining room, 9:43 P.M…_

"Okay, let's all get to bed. Annelise, stop jumping on the sofa!"

"I'm not tired yet, Daddy!"

"Go to bed. Now."

"…okay, Mom."

While Norway ushered his kids upstairs, Yukiko cleared away the dishes and accompanied Denmark to the kitchen. Kiku was in the shower, and Yukiko had just called her dad again, who didn't pick up. _Maybe he fell asleep…_

Yukiko hoisted herself on the kitchen counter; that was the only way she could talk to Denmark without him having to look down. For a minute or two, Yukiko sat in silence, watching Denmark wash the dishes.

"So…Anne and Eirik…are they cities or districts or…?"

Denmark shook a plate dry and put it on the rack. He looked like a regular dad without his hat and black overcoat and axe. "In a few years or so, probably...they're still kids, though they act like they understand."

"How did Norway open the portal?"

Denmark laughed. "You don't know?"

"Of course not. If Arthur-san couldn't figure it out, then how could I?"

The man finished scrubbing another plate. "See, that's what separates you from Annelise and Eirik. You talk like an adult, but I guess that's what happens when—"

"You're getting off topic."

"Right, right." He dried his hands with a towel and began stacking the dishes in the cabinet. "You know that troll-fairy thing, whatever it is, that Norge has hanging around him?"

"I don't think I've seen it…"

"Well, I didn't see it at first, but it's this big, mossy, misty thing that floats around him. Norge doesn't know that it followed him here, and he didn't see the thing help him, either."

"So you're saying a troll helped us."

"Hey, don't sound sarcastic, I'm being serious here."

"Shocker."

"Something's wrong with your mirror," Denmark said, eyeing the frame from the kitchen. "Anne Boleyn's mirror, right?"

"Yeah."

"There's a reason England kept it in the basement. Norge said he felt something else in the frame when he touched it."

"Anne Boleyn?"

Denmark shrugged. "Maybe she really was a witch and casted a spell on the mirror. But whatever it is, Norway's troll-fairy thing kept the frame under control. That's how you got hurt, isn't it?"

The first sentence sounded like he was teasing her, but he kept his gaze on the frame. The mirror seriously did unnerve him. "Is it going to hurt us now?" Yukiko asked.

Silence, then, "Only if we touch it."

She grasped her hand, rubbing her palm. "Can we cover the mirror up with cloth or something?"

The blond helped her down. "Sure."


	7. Chapter 7

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A/N: Thanks for the favs/reviews/alerts! Typed this up in two grueling days. Fastest update/chapter I've ever made. No, I don't know what the hell is wrong with me. Please allow me one week or so to type Chapter 8. XD Hope you enjoy!

**Sp/grammatical errors and DM linked words will be corrected after publication. **

**Notes: **-Remember to check the headings for the date and time!  
-You've all seen Denmark's axe. It's huge. 8D  
-Hanna's shown up before in CTD as a cameo. Her parents are Berwald and Tino.  
-Mikhail is still the reigning king of the polls. :3 Thanks being awesome and voting, everyone!  
-Have you all seen the **doujinshi **by **Jyro **yet? FFFFF..so cool~! -dances-

My e-mail: **ChocolateLoki (at) gmail . com **(Say hi? XD Just please don't spam. By the way, I have received your messages, karapuui, although I couldn't PM you back because FFnet took out your email in your message. oTL I apologize for the late reply! I'd love to chat with you online! ^u^)

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

_November 29, 1960, Strasbourg, France, around the park, 5:51 P.M…_

Yesterday had been an awkward day of fake searching for Evangeline, but so was today. Her cover wasn't blown yet, but that was only because France seemed too distracted to really register what she was saying. Soon the afternoon of Evangeline misleading France passed, which led to a simple stroll around the park. Her father seemed depressed, for he did not say a word or look at her much. Nevertheless, she was glad that Strasbourg was a big city, else they'd run out of places to go.

"Do I really look so much like that person?" Evangeline finally asked. The silence was dreadful.

France blinked. "Pardon?" He sounded like he was noticing Evangeline for the first time.

"That person I remind you of. Is she your lover?" Evangeline hoped France would say, 'Yes,' so she could be reassured that she didn't accidently break up her parents or something.

The blond was completely taken by surprise, but he answered anyways, "Yes, you do remind me of…her." He coughed. "But she is not my lover, or anywhere close to that, though I wish…"

France didn't go on, so Evangeline sighed. Evangeline glanced at the Christmas lights hanging from the café from across the street; similar sorts of decoration extended everywhere throughout the town.

She pointed them out. "What are those for?"

France kept walking. "Christmas market. Around the corner, but I'm not attending this year." He got that pitiful look on his face again; Evangeline noticed that he hadn't made a single pass at her, or anyone they encountered. _I_ _must've screwed up big time then…_

"Did you ask that person to go with you to the market?" The two passed a tall, pale woman, her curly golden locks flowing in the wind and totally reeking of expensive perfume.

He didn't even look up; France just stuffed his hands inside his pockets. "I did. But she won't come. She's going to spend the holidays in America with her dear _Alfred F. Jones_." He practically seethed at the last three words.

Oh God. Perhaps she did screw up her parent's relationship really badly if her mom was dating Adrian's mom—ew. That didn't sound right at all. If only she knew how to fix it…wait a minute. Maybe she still _could _help! She could remind him so much of England that he'll _have_ to try to get back together with him…her…whatever, again!

"Do you love her?"

"W-what?" He froze in place, staring at Evangeline incredulously.

"The person I look like. Do you love her?"

France brushed his hair back, in spite of how flustered he was. "Yes."

_It's actually working! _"Does she scold you for every minuscule detail?"

He seemed a bit shocked. "Yes—"

"Does she look at you with these big, green eyes one minute and punch you in the face the next?"

France gaped at her. "How do you know that—"

"Is she beautiful?"

It almost looked like France would choke on air. "Excuse me?"

Evangeline crossed her arms. "Is she beautiful?"

"Isn't this getting a little too personal?" He cleared his throat, hoping the girl would give up on the conversation, but Evangeline's eyes bore into him relentlessly. He exhaled, defeated. "Yes. She's very beautiful."

Evangeline grabbed France's hands and pulled him towards the café. "What are you doing now—?"

The girl opened the doors to the restaurant and pushed France in. "It's six o'clock and I'm hungry."

"Are you kidding me—"

"No. Buy something and come back." She took a seat at an empty table. "Well? Go on."

France went off to the counter, wondering why in the world he was listening to whatever this random girl said. He'd only met her yesterday, but…but it seemed like he knew her. This mysterious girl who'd appeared on his doorstep and introduced herself as Evan…she was acting so much like _Angleterre_: very demanding, with a temper that could change in five seconds, and a sharp tongue.

He paid the lady at the counter and returned to Evangeline, handing her a cup of Earl Grey. "Okay. I have bought you food and tea. What would you like me to do now, _ma cher_?"

Evangeline sensed heavy sarcasm thrown into the last two words. She answered breezily, "I want you to ask that person to go to the market with you again."

"What?" France leaned back against his chair, dumbfounded. "No, no, no…I don't think you understand. _She_ lives in England, and _she's_ going to America for the holidays, so _she's_ not coming to France."

Evangeline sipped at her cup. "She's uncertain. She can easily refuse an invitation, but not if you write sincerely, and I'm willing to bet that you wrote two sentences in your first invitation 'cause you didn't want to look desperate. And I have a feeling that this Alfred F. Jones has asked her at least fifty times before she agreed." Okay, she was guessing on that part, but having seen her mother interact with Adrian's mom, she could sum things up pretty quickly.

His mouth dropped; she was absolutely right, even about the part where Alfred had asked (more like whined) for Arthur to come to America before, during, and after every meeting for ten days. "How did you know that? And how do you know about Jones asking her fifty times?"

Evangeline nearly spat out her tea. She was _right_? "Uh…girls know things like this. So how exactly did you ask him, ah, I mean, her, out?"

"I sent her a letter and roses."

Evangeline nodded. The waitress had come to their table with plates of fruits and biscuits. "That's good. That's a good start—"

"But I sent the roses under Alfred F. Jones's name."

"…what?" She smacked both hands on the table, making some patrons stare at her, startled. "_What_? Why would you do that?"

France stirred his coffee nonchalantly, but Evangeline could see he was trying to stay calm, for his hand was trembling. "Believe me, when I bought the roses I had the full intention of giving it to her with my name, but when I heard she had planned to go to America, I changed my mind."

"B-but why? Why would you help your rival win her?" She ripped a chunk of her biscuit and chewed it angrily. "You're supposed to be the 'charming romantic', but it seems like you were too hopeless and lost your mind—"

France rose from his seat. "I did it because I didn't want her to think I'm stealing her from Alfred, okay?" Although his face was one of fury, his eyes were glowering at her helplessly. "I'm not going to force myself on him, but he doesn't know that. Arthur can take the roses as a congratulatory gift. From me!" He sat back down, his expression softening. "Do you understand now, Evan?"

_He didn't realize that he's switched pronouns_, Evangeline thought. _But at least now I know the person _is_ my Mum._ "It's alright, if you tell her I'm sure she'll—"

"He—she won't understand because he'll think I'm joking." He sighed one last time. "But I'm not."

Evangeline lowered her gaze. "I'm sorry."

He shook his head heavily. "No," he replied. "I should apologize for raising my voice." He finished his coffee in one gulp and put two fingers to his temple. "Let's go back after this and we'll start again tomorrow, is that okay?"

She nodded again behind the cover of her teacup. It actually hurt seeing her dad acting so pathetic. He was France, _the_ Francis Bonnefoy, yet here they were, father and daughter sitting in a coffee shop sulking in their own corners like strangers. But while France was ranting, Evangeline had devised a plan: she would find her mother's address (France had to have it somewhere in the house) and send the invitation herself without him knowing. She had to do this.

She took another glance at her dad. He was tried and frustrated; the war wound on his arm was probably aching right now, seeing that his hand was shaking just by holding up his coffee cup.

Her dad had tried his best, Evangeline concluded. Now it was her turn.

* * *

_November 30, 1960, France's house, 3:21 A.M…_

France finally went to bed at one forty-six, but not before he'd had six glasses of wine. Evangeline sometimes wished her dad would stop swimming in his own miseries, but it was probably because of her. She'd went to sleep at ten o'clock exact, was woken up by France at one when she heard him bustling in the kitchen, and waited until three to execute her plan.

Evangeline tiptoed downstairs with a flashlight, careful not to trip over an empty wine bottle and break her neck. Finding the stationary and England's address wasn't hard; they were both in the drawer of a table which had a single, nearly dead rose on it.

She wrote quickly in the flowing handwriting that was her dad's that she'd long learned to forge. The stationary was simple, bordered with printed baby pink ruffles; Evangeline penned the entire message (okay, it was only a couple of sentences, but she thought they were quite emotionally heart wrenching—alright, that was another lie. She wrote things that she herself would like to hear from a guy) in France's heavy fountain pen and sealed the letter neatly.

There was a folded woolen blanket sitting on the arm of the couch, and she was thankful for that, because she had decided to spend the next two hours sleeping on the couch until it was time to go to the post office.

She hoped France would be too drunk to hear her sneak out at five in the morning.

* * *

_November 30, 1960, London, Trafalgar Square, 3:53 P.M…_

Charles had been tailing after the two for an hour or so, and he had yet to find any suspicious activity regarding Alec. James and the doll had finally settled in Trafalgar Square, and he situated himself on the opposite end of the fountain, well-hidden behind the rush of water. Here he could easily observe them without getting caught. Or so he hoped.

Alec sat idly on the edge of one of the fountains. James had brought him here and promised to return with coffee, and Alec was thinking if he should leave right now when James ran back with said items.

"I didn't know which type you like, s-so I—"

Alec took the cup before James dropped it. "Thank you, James."

James, fumbling with his own cup of coffee and scone, nervously sat next to Alec. Alec sipped at his coffee and wondered why James was moving closer. "D-do you live here?"

"Oh, well, my parents move around a lot. Lived in Paris and moved to London and then America." Sip. Sip. "I guess I'm here as a tourist."

"Oh. Would you mind if we go to my house—"

Alec rose instantly. Uh oh, Ethan Cole Alert. "Don't you have your girlfriend waiting for you? Charles mentioned a person named Jane…"

"No, you've got it wrong! She's not my girlfriend, but—" _But now I've found you_, was what James wanted to say, but Alec continued for him.

"But you don't know how to approach her, isn't it?" Alec sighed; so he'd been worried over nothing. The guy just wanted dating tips. "First off, you should act like yourself, but in your case I guess we can bend that rule…" He sized up James, who was looking at him confusedly. "Well, I'm not sure, you look decent enough."

James took it as a compliment; he'd been stifling himself all day, and even Jane noticed him and waved shyly for the first time ever. But he didn't pay her any attention. "That's because I did it for y—"

Just as he was standing up, the scone rolled down to the ground and was immediately attacked by rabid pigeons. To James's delight, Alec actually laughed. James was acting so much like Adrian it was uncanny. Perhaps he should just enjoy this 1960s date—_day_, he'd meant to think _day_, not date.

"I wish I could take a picture of this," Alec blurted. _And now I will smooth-talk my way out…somehow…_

"I have a Polaroid at home, but it's an heavy thing. Someone should make it more lightweight." James stared off into the distance, where a man was enthusiastically testing out his new Polaroid and giving photos to people he took. "I see a man with a Polaroid. I think he's taking pictures for free. Should we ask—"

Oh yeah. This was the age of no digital photography, what a disappointment. Alec searched in his pockets and fished out his cell phone, which he had not turned on yet (he didn't think it would work in 1960 anyways). _Who cares if James sees it? It's not like he has anyone to tell. _

"He looks kind of crazy," Alec replied, watching the photographer snap pictures one after another, letting the photos fall on the ground.

James set his coffee down, eyeing the cell phone. "What's that?"

Alec snapped a photo of the birds and was about to slip it back into his pocket when James plucked it out of his hands. "It's my phone, now give it back."

Okay, he regretted taking his cell out, since James was practically going through all his photos and text messages. "You're joking. No phone can be this tiny."

"Yes, I'm completely joking, now give it back."

"Wait, wait." James flipped through the touch screen and opened a message. "This one says, '_ill c u at the mall ilu –Adrian_.' Who's Adrian? What's…" He squinted. "…_eyeloo_?"

Alec finally snatched it back, his face flushed. "Nobody. That's nobody."

James narrowed his eyes. Alec had gotten embarrassed when he mentioned the name 'Adrian.' Seriously, he could care less about Alec's magical fake phone when now he now knew that someone called Adrian wanted to meet Alec at the mall to eyeloo, whatever the hell that meant. He could feel envy brimming up to his ears and burning at his throat like acid.

"Is Adrian your friend—"

The crazy Polaroid man had stalked up to James and snapped a quick picture. "Pictures? Do you want a picture with your girlfriend? Free of charge. I'm testing out my new camera, see, I just got it today—"

James rubbed his eyes. "No, I don't want a picture—"

Alec raised his eyebrows. Did the cameraman just refer to him as James's girlfriend? He was about to punch the idiot in the nose when he realized what a great opportunity it would be for him to distract James from his cell phone.

The blond suddenly clung to James's shoulders and batted his eyelashes, which he hadn't done since the trip in D.C. when he had to pretend he was some guy named Collin Bitt. "We'd love a picture! Take two, how about that?"

The cameraman nodded excitedly. "Of course! Anything for such a lovely girl!"

"Just take the picture." _Idiot…_

The camera flashed and Alec beamed his best plastic-Barbie smile. Meanwhile, James's face was getting warmer when he felt Alec leaning on his shoulders and smiling that super cute grin. What should he do now, he was getting nervous; the cameraman had called Alec his girlfriend…it wasn't difficult to mistake Alec for a girl, but Alec didn't look like he cared, so maybe he still had a chance! Before the camera flashed a second time, James decided to put his arm around Alec, who barely noticed.

"Here you go, Miss—"

Alec snatched the photos quickly and waved it around, shooing the photographer away. "Yeah, see you."

The pictures actually turned out pretty well, except for the fact that Alec would have to burn his part unless he wanted Adrian to rape him for two days straight for getting chummy with another guy—_which was not a bad idea_, Alec thought, then shook his head. No, what in the world was he thinking?

He gave away the one with James's arm around him; better not have _that_ one around him, just in case. "Don't we look so vintage in black-and-white photos, James?"

James couldn't help but stammer. "I-I guess so?" He held on tight to the picture, careful not to smear it.

Alec, for his part, couldn't figure out why James was still gazing at him in a way he'd seen other guys look at pretty girls. He suddenly felt uncomfortable and got the sense that he should leave, fast. Alec picked up his coffee cup finished it in one gulp. "Well, it's getting kind of late, I think I should go now. I'll see you tomorrow…" _Not likely_. "…and maybe we can talk again!" _Hope we don't._

On his end of the fountain, Charles was about to fall asleep. Nothing was happening, unless he counted the weird cameraman going up to James and Alec whipping out something shining and tiny from his pocket. Probably a whistle of a sort, James guessed. He shrugged his backpack on and was about to leave when a sudden movement from James grabbed his attention.

Alec turned on his heels to walk away, but once again, James grasped his wrists, although this time he pulled him closer so it'd look like Alec was huddled against his chest. Alec flinched; this encounter was getting increasingly like that Ethan Cole scene at the airport.

"Um…what are you doing?"

James was certain that he loved Alec, this strange, alluring person he'd happened to chance upon. "I won't see you tomorrow, or the day after that."

"That's great—I mean, that's too bad!" _Now please let go because I really don't care…!_

"I'm going to France. To Strasbourg for the Christmas market. I'll be back on Friday." He paused. "Will you wait for me 'til then?"

Alec could feel James's heart pound faster and faster. "I-I'm not sure, probably not—"

"I love you."

Alec stopped squirming. _What. The. Hell? _"I don't think you know what you're talking about—"

James pushed his face closer, and Alec leaned backwards. "I know exactly what I'm saying. I love you, Alec Bonnefoy. I want you to know this before I leave."

The blond resumed twisting around in James's embrace. "I think you're just upset about Jane. I mean, the whole world isn't just about her, there's plenty of other girls, like those girls with Charles. And if you're serious, I have to say that I already have a—mmph!"

Out of nowhere, James pressed his lips on Alec's gaping mouth and kissed him deeply, his eyes closed; Alec tasted like coffee and milk and sweet and he wasn't pushing him off. On the other hand, Alec was too shocked to do much of anything; he lost his hold on his coffee and it rolled onto a pigeon, which began pecking furiously at the paper. _B-but he likes Jane! Why is he—oh no. Oh no. He was targeting me after all, I'm such an idiot!_

Charles's mouth dropped, though it seemed as if his throat had been glued shut. He could only point frantically at the doll and his best friend kissing like a loon, but all that did was make a nearby old lady look at where he was gesturing and smile, saying, "That's lovely couple right there, isn't it?" He understood then why no one was freaking out: it was because the doll looked like a girl to begin with! Charles gripped his bag before it fell on the pigeons and ran out of Trafalgar Square.

Finally, James let go of Alec, both boys catching their breath. Alec hand automatically rose to touch his lips; he felt like a bug had kissed him.

"Wait for me on Friday," James said. "I promise I'll be here."

"Y-you—"

Alec didn't know what came over him. His head was feeling light and his heart too tight for his chest. He raised his right hand and slapped James, hard.

James touched his cheek, which was beginning to sting. "Alec—"

"You're a selfish jerk, you know that?"

He didn't wait for James to respond. Alec dashed out of Trafalgar Square and he thought he must've run two blocks to a small park before he could no longer hear James calling his name. He crumpled his Polaroid photo and tossed it in the wastebasket. He did not want to see _him_ anytime soon.

Alec didn't care about being kissed. He didn't run away from James just because he was forced into it. It was that stupid expression James made after Alec had insulted him that reminded him of Adrian last year at the airport. He'd lashed out recklessly at both of them, and truly did hurt them. He had been the one playing the bad guy the entire time, not James.

It felt like all his energy had been sapped after striking James. As he made his way back to England's house, he knew he had to leave 1960 before Friday. Leave 1960 England and James Chase and that pitiful look he had made. And it was all because of him.

* * *

_November 29, 1960, England's house, 11:47 P.M…_

England adjusted himself into a comfortable position on the sofa and opened his book. The lad had come home at around six, looking sullen and sick. He had gone upstairs right after dinner, and England couldn't figure out a plausible explanation for the boy's behavior since he'd ordered dinner from a restaurant, so it couldn't have been a stomachache.

Nevertheless, Alec had told England he was ill and gone to bed early. England was starting to doubt if the boy was even lost; he didn't seem intent on finding his parents, if he'd really lost them. What's more, Alec had gotten agitated when England talked about Francis's letter and replied that he wasn't going. But Alec didn't look like a conman or a spy or anything of the sort. Who Alec looked like was actually Francis, especially today when he'd greeted England with that melancholy expression. He'd seen it on Francis so many times when the Frenchman thought he wasn't looking; it had started when England accepted America's invitation, but England could never figure out why. After all, Francis was one who acted as if he didn't care if England visited him or not.

The blond spotted a petal detach itself and float to the table. He got up and went the vase to straighten the bouquet. It was thoughtful of Alfred to get him flowers, but when he thanked the American on the phone, Alfred's tone was skeptical and said he didn't send any flowers. As England parted each individual rose, a small piece of paper fell out of the bunch and landed on Francis's opened letter. On the card were the words in flowing cursive, _With love from Alfred F. Jones._

England's face got warm. That was sweet, though he'd never actually admit it to Alfred's face. It was nice to know that Alfred still cared about niceties like this even when they had no time to see each other anymore, courtesy of the WWII aftermath.

Alfred and him…what were they now? They hardly talk anymore, save for political reasons and that one time Alfred suddenly asked him to come to his home. But Alfred barely called him; it was Francis on the other end whenever the phone rang, inquiring how he was doing and his economy, although that had stopped when England had decided to visit America. If it weren't for Alfred's last minute begging, England thought he might've gone to France. It was almost as if all his conversations with Francis had been lost once he accepted Alfred's invitation. _Francis must've meant those phone calls to be a joke then…_

He was about to tuck the card back into the roses when he realized he'd smudged the ink on the card. The words weren't printed, and Alfred could never write out such even, perfect letters by hand, much less in cursive. England took out Francis's letter and compared the handwriting to the card.

It was exactly the same.

At first England supposed that Alfred got Francis to write it for him, but Francis had been quite hostile to the American and would've never agreed. The only other option was that Francis himself sent the flowers, which seemed to solve why Alfred was puzzled when he mentioned the bouquet.

England wanted to smack himself on the forehead. Roses! He should've known! Who else other than Francis would give him roses? Was Francis mocking him? Or was he for real?

Yesterday while Alec and he were chatting during their search around the city, England told him about Francis's phone calls and stated jokingly on how annoying they were getting, and Alec had answered solemnly that, "I think he might love you. Mr. Bonnefoy, I mean."

"Excuse me?" he had retorted. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't catch that—"

Alec had shrugged. "I think he loves you. Why else would he keep calling you? He quit it because he failed to win you over."

"We're just friends—"

"That's what you want to think."

England had looked away then, slightly unnerved that Alec somehow was able to supply his questions about Francis with a reasonable answer. Heck, he was already shocked that Alec was speaking so casually about him and Francis, but he gave in at the end. "How do you know that? Maybe he's playing around. Maybe I—"

"I know this because I know you. And also because I'm dating someone right now." He'd touched that scarf of his gently after saying that. "And what were you going to say? That maybe he's the one you truly like, not Mr. Jones? Well, he doesn't know that, does he?"

…_After all, Francis was one who acted as if he didn't care if England visited him or not…_

…_Francis was the one who_ acted _as if he didn't care… _

Maybe Alec was right. England pocketed the smeared card and pressed his palm to his forehead. What was he to do now? And what could Alec have meant by he knew him?

* * *

_November 30, present, Evangeline's house, front lawn, 3:29 P.M…_

While the nations were discussing inside the house, Eirik and Annelise dawdled on the front lawn, watching car after car pass by Evangeline's house. Eirik flipped a page in a novel he'd found in Arthur's basement (his dad had fixed the lights) and Annelise turned another cartwheel in her yellow dress.

"Hey, Yukiko, do you think they've found their kids yet?" Annelise asked when Yukiko returned with a basket. Inside were small cakes she'd taken from Arthur's fridge (they looked edible, so Yukiko assumed either Evangeline or Francis made them), a pot of fruit tea, and Arthur's porcelain tea cups.

Annelise fell on that last cartwheel and crawled to the cake basket. Yukiko kneeled and picked at the strawberry on her cake. "I don't know," she answered, "But I think they've arrived."

"How can you tell?"

Yukiko shrugged and looked away. The last thing she wanted to think about was the creepy mirror. Annelise settled next to Yukiko and peered at her face. "Are we celebrating your birthday early?" She gestured to the cakes. "You're turning fifteen, right?"

She turned back, surprised. "You remember?"

"Of course I do, it's this Friday. You know, I sent your present just before I left. Dropped it in the post office on our way to the airport. I hope I remembered to change the address to England's house." She contemplated this, then exhaled softly. "I think I did. It's a really pretty dress. Mom and I looked in so many stores, but this one is the prettiest."

"Thank you, Anne." Annelise was still a kid, but Yukiko hoped that she wouldn't change when she became a city. What a pity it would be to lose this bubbly young personality.

The front door was open, and the three kids could hear noises from the house. "What's going on inside?"

Annelise ate the strawberry Yukiko had been stabbing at before the girl attacked it. "Mom found out that Dad brought his axe along, and now he's irritated."

"How'd he get it past security?"

"He wrapped it up, put it in a cello case, and said it was a metal cello."

Yukiko laughed. "And the guards actually believed your dad and ignored the x-ray scanner, very smart. So why did he bring it?"

"Mom wrote that there was trouble in his note, so Dad wanted to be on the safe side."

"It's a double-headed war axe. He can help by chopping that mirror frame into firewood after Arthur-san comes back—"

A delivery guy walked up to the kids and grinned. "Having a tea party, girls? Did you run out of dolls so you had to make your brother join?" he asked Annelise, who looked the oldest.

Here was another person who thought of them as little kids. It got so annoying sometimes. "We're having afternoon tea, I don't see why we must have dolls. Who's the package for?"

The deliveryman was a bit shocked when Yukiko responded. "A-are your parents at home?" he stuttered.

Annelise pointed at the box. "That's the gift I sent Yukiko. That's pretty fast delivery service. Give it to her, Mister, she'll sign it."

Most delivery guys could've cared less, but this one must've been either really dumb or new at his job. "Where are your parents? This is addressed to a Miss Yukiko Karpusi—"

"That's me."

The man raised his eyebrows and bent down to Yukiko's level. "Where's your mommy? I think she should sign it—_what the—_!"

Just as the guy was about to walk up to the front door, Denmark's axe sailed from inside and missed the man's nose by two inches. It imbedded itself in the delivery truck, the impact making the truck nearly tip over.

The deliveryman was this close to shrieking like a little girl. "Did you two see that? _Look at my truck_—!"

From inside the house came Norway's voice: "Annelise, will you do me a favor and take that to the backyard?"

"Okay, Mom." Annelise pulled the axe out as if it was stuck in nothing more solid than butter. She smiled benignly at the deliveryman. "It's a good thing your truck was parked there. Mom would've definitely hit the house across the street."

"You know, Hanna's dad can probably throw it harder," she told Yukiko, carrying the axe on her shoulder. She slammed the blade on the lawn and stuck it there. "I'll put it away later—hey, where'd the delivery guy go?"

"He ran away. But he left the package."

"Oh. Okay, then."

"…you know what we should do?"

"What?"

"We should have Hanna's dad and your dad compete in an axe throwing contest. The person who chucks it the farthest, wins."

"Sure they'll agree to that," Annelise chuckled, "if they don't kill each other first, that is. Let's open your present now."

Eirik poured himself another cup of fruit tea and looked up. The girls were fawning over a white dress with blue ribbon hems. He also saw his Dad's axe that had inexplicably stuck itself in the grass nearby…

…well, he'd seen stranger things happen around Annelise. He flipped another page in Arthur's book and tuned out the girls' excited chattering.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Thank you all for the favs/reviews/alerts! Failishly slow update. oTL**

**Sp/grammatical errors and DM linked words will be corrected after publication. I only proofreaded once or twice this time, I'm sorry! ;A;**

**Notes:**-I'm replying to your reviews using the review replier thingy, so it doesn't show up in my outbox anymore. Thus I have no record of what I've wrote to you guys. If it seems random or if I sound like I'm high, then I'm probably hyped up on sugar. I apologize in advance!  
-So. Looks like axe throwing contests are real (according to an awesome reviewer). Ahahaha, to think that Sweden's lovely waifu would be the usual winner! XD  
-I also read about flying [in airplanes! LOL] in the 1960. It's pretty interesting. You just pay your money, no ID needed, no security checks, and most people wore nice clothes (because flying was a rare event). Oh, and flight attendants were young and pretty had skirts so short Francis would kill for them. Most people who flew were businessmen, sometimes families. And yeah, I made up the ticket price, but back in the 1960s, that was a lot of money. I think.  
-Don't worry, 1960!Spain and 1960!Romano will appear in PTP.  
-Doujin? Read it yet? Hmm? 8D  
-If you have anything you want to ask, my email is in profile. Thanks!

**EDIT**: AW, dammit. Writer's block. Chapter 9 will be out a little slower than usual. I apologize. oTL

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

_November 29, 1960, Manhattan, New York, airport, 1:31 P.M…_

The taxi ride had felt like an eternity, especially when Natalia was in the car. It was as if the traffic had been purposely avoiding them before and now they were back. However, Adrian and Mikhail hadn't spotted either Russia or America chasing them, though they reckoned that _that_ would happen sooner or later.

They'd arrived at the airport ten minutes ago and all five of them were waiting in the airport ticket line, gathering curious looks from people wondering why none of them had any luggage and were dressed so casually. Most were businessmen in crisp suits who stared at the boys and whistled to Natalia. Adrian thought his parents knew what they were doing, so he followed them without too many questions.

"What do think you're doing, Alfred?"

He twiddled with his wallet. "Well, we're going to Strasbourg."

Ivan's eye twitched. "This is no time to take a vacation—"

"Quiet down, do you want the others to hear your accent? We're going to France because Iggy must be spending the holidays with Francis, and I remember that Francis was in Strasbourg in 1960 recovering from his wounds."

"How can you be sure—"

"I don't, I'm assuming."

"But I thought you were still with England in the 19—"

"He's with Francis."

"…are you sure?"

"Geez, Ivan, I'm not one hundred percent positive! It's been fifty years, you forget shit. Besides, my gut tells me that this is right."

"You said that in a McDonald when you ordered a Big Mac and fries."

After watching his parents bicker quietly amongst themselves, Adrian leaned over to his brother, whispering, "Why do you think America and Russia aren't following us?" With America's attitude and the unstable mental state of Russia, Adrian thought it strange that they'd given up so easily.

Before Mikhail could reply, Natalia answered monotonously, staring at the lady at the ticket counter, "I left a smoke canister, although I am assuming that it has worn off thirty minutes ago, and America and my brother will be waking up in the alley sometime around now."

Adrian could see her hand patting her thigh, where her knives were strapped. He wished the men in the line would stop calling out to Natalia, unless they wanted to get killed, or that his aunt would stop touching her own thigh, because the motion was sort of suggestive to the others... "I-I see…"

Alfred made his way to the counter and flashed his brightest, most fake smile at the agent, who did not return the gesture. Her face had a brittle, glasslike quality, as if it could shatter if too much pressure was applied. Her ever-present scowl and Alfred's beaming face did nothing to improve her looks.

"Yes?" intoned the agent.

"We'd like five tickets to Strasbourg. When's the earliest flight?"

The lady stamped page after page in a folder with incredible force using a worn wooden stamp. "Sold out. Everybody wants to go to the Christmas market, and well, you're too late."

Alfred tried again, "How about Paris?"

The lady looked up and scanned Alfred's outfit. "Get lost, kid. One ticket to France would cost around two hundred dollars, five tickets would be a thousand, and I'm sure you can't afford that."

The American peeled ten hundred dollar bills from his wallet and slid it towards the woman. "Five tickets to France, please."

She was too shocked to notice the difference on the modern hundred dollar bills. "H-how did you…" She seemed to be making up her mind; that, or making up excuses, for this was the first time in her life she'd been proven so wrong by a mere boy. "T-this is a respectable airline, Sir, I'm afraid I can't let you on board. The way you are dressed…the other passengers won't be comfortable—"

"—seeing a guy on an airplane in a t-shirt? What do I have to do, wear a tuxedo?"

"Sir—"

Ivan turned to the lady and slammed his hands on the counter, making her flinch. "I believe that he has requested five tickets to France." And reaching inside his trench coat, Ivan pulled out a wad of cash bound together with a thin strip of paper, which he promptly dropped on the counter. "You understand, да?"

The woman gulped and hesitantly replaced the money with five pieces of printed paper without looking at the bills. "Yes, Sir. Your flight will be leaving for Paris at three, and your gate is located down that path on the right. H-have a nice day."

Alfred reached inside Ivan's coat once they left the counter. "Why do you have a cash—God, you strap cash inside your coat?"

"Precautionary measure." Ivan smirked at Alfred as he pocketed the tickets. "Nice try, kid."

Ivan spent the next one and a half hours attempting to appease a fuming Alfred. Adrian and Mikhail, for their part, followed their Aunt Natalia around, who was busy threatening old businessmen that were crawling up her back. Truthfully, they felt safer having her at their side, even if there were perverted geezers trailing after her.

In an alley, far, far away from the airport, America would be waking up from Natalia's smoke canister and scream bloody murder when he realized that he had, in fact, curled up and fallen asleep next to Russia, and that he'd _liked_ it.

* * *

_November 29, 1960, Germany's house, guest bedroom, 11:45 P.M…_

Germany had done as he promised, but Felicita had the feeling that he knew they were lying, even if he'd decided to play along. They'd searched a small part of the city, and the worst part was that Italy always lingered one or two steps behind, as if afraid to come closer.

Their guest bedroom was neat and tidy, but that was only to be expected from Germany. Italy had retreated into another guest bedroom long ago and had not come out since. The bed was big enough for two, so the girls had decided to share it. Felicita was a bit apprehensive about sleeping next to Aloisa, especially after she'd seen how Mikhail had fared when he'd slept next to her, but she ignored it (although it was true that she didn't sleep very well last night).

Felicita had a hard time yesterday finding a right moment to show Aloisa the picture she'd found under the couch. In the morning, Aloisa seemed to be quite stressed, and Felicita didn't want to add to that; for most of the day Germany kept a careful eye on them, not to mention pelting them with questions; at night, Aloisa appeared too tired and depressed to listen to Felicita.

"Lights out, Felicita," Aloisa said, turning off the lamps.

"Good night," Felicita returned.

She turned to the edge of the bed and reached inside her jean pocket; the photo was still there, crumple. She fumbled with it and took it out, but the rustling noise made Aloisa flip to her side.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Nothing."

"Let me see."

"Good night, Aloisa."

Aloisa turned the lights back on, her expression more worried than livid. "Let me see."

Felicita sighed and handed her the picture. "I was going to show it to you, but you seemed too…zoned out, I guess…"

The blond examined the photo, narrowing her eyes. "Where did you find this?"

"Under the couch—hey, where are you going?"

Aloisa rummaged in the drawer and took out a flashlight, beckoning Felicita to follow. "There is a paper-clipped mark on the photo. It must've fallen loose from another stack."

The girls went down the staircase and towards the living room, carefully avoiding the steps that creaked. Aloisa tiptoed ahead and noticed the fireplace, now filled with half-burnt logs and smoke emitting from them.

"It's gone out. Hold on, I'll light it again," Aloisa said.

She fingered the top of the fireplace until she felt a package of matches, which she lit and threw amongst the logs. It fizzled and cracked and the light went out momentarily before returning in the form of warm, glowing embers that began to grow bigger and bigger.

Aster, Blackie, and Berlitz snuck up on Aloisa and sniffed her ankles, making Aloisa jump in fright, but they stayed quiet and settled down next the fire, their eyes closing once more. The fire was comforting; Aloisa's house had a fireplace, and she'd liked to gather around it with the dogs and pretend they were roasting wursts or marshmallows when she was younger. And her Vati would sit on the sofa, wearing his reading glasses and gazing at the words on his book, while her Mama would snuggle next to him and doodle out another outfit design for the company or just draw random things in his sketchbook. At that time, Aloisa remembered that she'd thought about how young her parents appeared with the fire reflecting on their faces.

"Where did you find the photo?"

Felicita knelt and peered under the couch. "Hand me your flashlight."

Aloisa did so, and soon Felicita fished out a folder hidden deep under the couch, covered with dust, but the file was not yellow or aged.

"I got it," Felicita said, handing the file over to Aloisa. "It's labeled, but it's in German."

Apparently Felicita assumed that Aloisa knew more German than her, but unfortunately she was wrong. Aloisa pretended to know what she was doing as she read the notes pasted on the cover first: in German were squiggly handwritten notes initialed by the letters _T.H._, and in bold writing, the handwriting that was her Vati's, was one recognizable word she'd learned from her _Onkel_ Gilbert—_destroy. _Using her finger, she traced back to the paragraph 'T.H.' wrote and spotted three more words she knew (actually, she was guessing)—_return to government_.

"I think T.H. is Dad's boss…so he'd be the President," Aloisa concluded. "And he wants my dad to give this back to him. But my dad wrote, _destroy_, as a memo."

"Maybe he intended to keep it."

Aloisa opened the folder, and an opened letter slipped out, addressed to Ludwig Beilschmidt from Feliciano Vargas with a label, URGENT, on it. Surprisingly, the letter was in English, although the handwriting was shaky and illegible. Only she and her Vati knew how to interpret it, but just barely.

She read it aloud softly for the sake of Felicita, who was staring at the paper as if it was written in code: "_August 20, 1945. Ludwig, I know I am the last person in the world you want to see, and that you might just as well rip this letter into pieces, but I will be visiting Kiku in the hospital soon, and I was wondering—" _Aloisa paused for a second, for the next part she thought was scratched out and she lost her place. "_Please come to Japan with me. I'm so worried about Kiku…_I-I can't figure out what the rest says."

Felicita scooted closer to Aloisa. "This file only has letters from your mom to your dad. He didn't open some of the later ones…"

Aloisa swallowed. "I think these are the World War II information my dad didn't give me." She turned to Felicita. "Open them. Open the rest."

The brunette handed the letters to Aloisa. "That's all of them. I can only read the dates though. Seems like the one we read first was the last letter your mom sent your dad."

With shaky hands, Aloisa raised one letter and began reading it: "_August 10, 1945. Terrible news. Kiku's been attacked. I don't know how he's doing right now…Please reply."_

She wetted her lips and scanned another one: "_September 8, 1943. I guess you've heard already. The war is ending, Ludwig, and everyone's fighting a losing battle. I have not given up on you, and I will never give up, but I have given up on this war…" _

And another one: "_November 5, 1942. Ludwig, I need you to listen to me. The camps are killing you. He has lied to you, he's been lying to you all the time. Please stop…" _

And another one, though this mail was previously opened by Germany: "_January 26, 1941. Thank you so much for taking me to the ice cream parlor! Maybe it was just me, but you seemed sort of distracted…I think I'm imagining things. By the way, are you coming over next week? Ti amo!" _

Aloisa shuffled to the earliest one, dated 1940: "_December 15, 1940. Let's invite Kiku over for the Christmas market, it'll be loads of fun! I'll see you next Saturday. Ti amo!" _

Felicita blinked at Aloisa, who'd gotten up and carried the pile of letters to the fireplace. "There's still more, Aloisa. Aren't you going to read them—wait, what are you doing?"

Silently, Aloisa threw most of the letters into the fire, waiting for them to blacken and burn and crumble into ashes. She still had one more letter in her hand, the ice cream parlor letter. _That was the turning point_, she decided. _That was when things became different. _She flicked that letter into the fire also, watching the 'ti amo' on the paper shrivel.

Felicita gaped at her, astounded. "Why did you do that?"

"I've seen them," Aloisa told her. "Now that I've seen the papers my dad didn't give me, I don't need to see them again. I'm doing him a favor."

"But what if he finds out that they're missing?" Felicita wrung her hands, exasperated. "He'll know we had something to do with it—"

"No he won't. I doubt if he'll even care. Can you hand me the fireplace shovel? It's next to Blackie."

Once the fire was put out, the dogs raised their heads groggily and moved to different corners of the room, burrowing themselves into warmer places.

"Let's go back to bed," Aloisa said, checking the clock on the wall. "It's already…tomorrow. Twelve thirty in the morning. We've got another long day tomorrow."

"Yeah."

"Do you miss your parents?"

Felicita laughed uneasily. "Why all of a sudden?"

"Just wondering."

"Yes, of course I do. Won't it be nice if they dropped in here for tea tomorrow?"

"Sure. And _Onkel_ Gilbert will come dancing like a maniac the day after that with beer for everyone."

"…are you being sarcastic?"

"I'm just dreaming happy thoughts with you. Hell, I wouldn't mind seeing _Onkel_ Gilbert right now. "

The girl's expression softened. "So are you okay? I mean, with your parents like this…"

"I'm fine," Aloisa answered. "We just have to put up with it until we find some way to leave."

"Maybe our parents are looking for us."

"I hope so, too."

"Hey, Aloisa?"

"Yeah?"

"You won't have the World War Two papers in your file anymore, you know that, right?"

Aloisa gave her an unreadable smile. "We weren't supposed to have them."

They entered their bedroom Felicita and swung the door shut soundlessly. It had been a difficult day, and both of them knew that tomorrow would be no different.

But Gilbert waltzing into the house with beer was a nice thought.

* * *

_November 30, 1960, Strasbourg, France, post office, 5:21 A.M…_

Evangeline thought she'd done a rather beautiful job with the letter. England's address was printed neatly in cursive and she'd found lots of stamps stashed in the back of the drawer. She didn't know exactly how many she should put, but she stuck about ten of them, just in case.

She'd seen the main post office yesterday when she was basically touring the place with France, and she struggled to remember which path she'd taken. It didn't take her too long, however. She found the post office and slipped through the doors. She could've thrown the mail into a mailbox, but she didn't have that kind of time.

"I'd like to send this to Arthur Kirkland in England, please," she told the lady at the counter. "Is there any way it can reach him…like, today?"

The woman looked up; she had a sharp, pretty face, her hair combed back into a ponytail that reminded Evangeline strangely of Aloisa or her dad. She licked her lips and drummed the table with her manicured fingers unconcernedly.

"I apologize," she said coolly in a strong accent, "but it is the holiday season. Do you really think we can send mail overseas on such short notice during this time?"

Evangeline pushed the letter to her nonetheless. "But it's really important. It absolutely has to reach Arthur Kirkland _today_."

She rolled her eyes. "Listen, little girl. We cannot send your letter immediately. Besides, my shift is over." She grabbed her coat and stood up. "Please come back again."

"But it's from Francis Bonnefoy!"

The lady froze and stared at Evangeline. "It is from Monsieur Bonnefoy? I'd like to slap that creep in the face twice, but since he has been placed in the highest importance here…" She sniffed contemptuously and snatched Evangeline's letter. "I will see to it that the letter be delivered and received today. May I ask who is sending the letter?"

"Francis Bonnefoy."

"No, I meant _your_ name."

"Oh, um…" She hesitated. "Why?"

"Required," the woman sighed. She had much better things to do than bother with this girl, but it was standard procedure to ask the sender's name when the letter was from Francis Bonnefoy. All she knew was that he was closely related to the government and whoever he sent a letter to the messenger's name was required.

"Are you going to tell anyone?"

"Of course not, _ma cher_…" she lied, annoyed.

The girl exhaled. "My name is Evangeline Bonnefoy. Is that all?"

The lady started, almost dropping the mail. "You are related to him?"

"I'm his daughter," she admitted. "But he doesn't know." _Wait, that had come out wrong…_

"Oh, you poor dear," the woman crooned, misinterpreting the sentence. "I hope everything is alright—" She knew Francis fooled around, but not like this! To have a daughter without knowing…that was quite serious…

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Evangeline reassured the woman. "I just need that letter to be received today."

"Of course, anything."

Evangeline dashed back to France's house then, wondering if she should've lied about her name.

* * *

_November 30, present, Evangeline's house, front lawn, 4:55 P.M…_

"What do we do now?"

Yukiko lied on her back, watching the clouds rearrange themselves. "Nothing," she answered Annelise.

"But we've been doing that for thirty minutes."

"Then we'll keep doing it for another ten minutes, and then we'll go inside. Is that okay with you, Eirik?"

"Mhmm."

"See, he says it's okay."

"But it's boring—"

"Excuse me," said a new voice. "Is Alec Bonnefoy at home?"

Annelise rolled over and stood up. "I'm sorry, but who are you?"

The girl puckered her lips slightly in a cute gesture, but Eirik wrinkled his nose. She reeked of perfume and perfume and perfume. "My name is Melanie Beaumont, Alec's girlfriend. Alec hasn't shown up for school for two days, so I was wondering where he was…"

Yukiko sat upright and studied the girl. She had an alluring face, shining with thick makeup, but her smile was unfriendly, as if the girl had other intentions. "He's away. Family emergency."

"Oh my, I'm so sorry," she said, her voice dripping fake sympathy. "Will you give this letter to Alec then?" She handed the envelope to Yukiko. "Make sure that he gets it, will you?"

"Sure."

Yukiko pursed her lips as Melanie waddled away. Annelise grabbed the letter out of Yukiko's hands and grinned. "Alec's girlfriend gave him a love letter!" she exclaimed. "That's so romantic!"

The smaller girl huffed disbelievingly. "You know Alec's with Adrian right now, so that couldn't have been his girlfriend. There's something off about this…hand me that letter."

"You shouldn't open Alec's things, Yukiko."

Yukiko tore at the top part of the letter. "I know, but—_ah_…!"

She dropped the letter and stuck her finger in her mouth, sucking on the wound. There were a two thin pieces of cosmetic blades attached to the envelope's opening, placed on each end of the envelope so that the receiver would cut him or herself upon tearing it. Yukiko took her finger out and watched the cut heal and close up.

"Are you okay?" Annelise asked.

"I'm fine," Yukiko said. She detached the blades and tore the envelope open; written on the inside in red, jagged letters were the words, _Stay away from Adrian_. "But Alec isn't."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Thanks for the favs/reviews/alerts! I'm so sorry I took so long updating. Finals are coming up, so it's time to mega-study. This chapter is a bit shorter (is running out of brain juice). oTL**

**Sp/grammatical errors will be corrected after publication. **

**Notes:** -h t t p :/www. youtube. com/watch?v =MF65pxLwcRo&feature=related My God. I am so inspired by Sam Tsui's cover of this song. I think I'll do a Christmas sidestory based on this song. Something Adr/Ale-related. (Meh, I don't care if Christmas ended. It's Christmas everyday. Trololol~)  
-Doujin is down for the moment, but I think it'll be back up when it has been revised.

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. **

* * *

_Tuesday, November 29, 1960, Manhattan, New York, 2:01 P.M…_

America blearily opened one eye, then the other. He was on the snow, in the alley where Belarus had knocked him down. Strangely, he wasn't cold at all; he could feel the ice pressing against his shirt, but there was also a warm, comfortable sort of heat radiating near him, as if he was sleeping next to a giant teddy bear. He didn't mind giant teddy bears.

Russia's crazy sister had dropped a smoke canister before she left, and he didn't even notice it…his senses were still feeling fuzzy, and his eyes were about to shut when a heavy arm draped over his body.

At first America didn't even respond, thinking it to be a dream, and that Adrian and Michael had been a dream, but then he recognized the gloved hand and the cuffs on the sleeve that could only belong to one person. And it wasn't a giant teddy bear.

The blond scrambled away, his throat emitting a high-pitched noise as he pointed at Russia like a madman. "Y-you bastard! You thought you could sneak up on me when I was vulnerable, huh?" He grope in the snow for his gun and picked it up, aiming it at Braginski. "You and your sister are up to something, I'm not falling for it!"

Russia rose and staggered about, clutching his head. "What the hell are you talking about, you—"

"Don't come near me! I swear I'll shoot!"

The taller man raised his hands and stared at America. "I am offering a temporary truce. I do not know why my sister was here, I do not know who the others were, and I have no interest in killing you…" He narrowed his eyes. "…for now."

America's gun lowered a fraction of an inch. "How do I know you'll keep your word?"

"I will not leave without my sister," he assured the American, who did not look impressed. Reluctantly, he tossed Natalia's knife over. "I will let you keep this for the time being."

The less weapons Russia had, the better. America strapped the knife to his coat, intent on throwing it out later. "What else?"

"What more do you want?"

Honestly, he didn't know. "I…I want you to buy me burgers for a week!"

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me, commie!"

Russia crossed his arms, irritated. "I agree to your terms…greedy pig…"

"What was that?"

He faked a smile. "What was what, America?"

America pursed his lips. "I say we follow them," he declared. "They couldn't have left the city—"

"America, if I were a spy—which I am not—would I want to stay in the same country if I've been discovered?"

"So…they went to the airport?"

"That is a possibility."

The blond glared at Russia. "I'll play along with you for now, but if I find out you're—" He stopped abruptly and sneezed. His jacket was partly wet; he should go into a diner or someplace warm, but he couldn't do that when he was dragging around that abominable snowman. "Dammit…what are you looking at, bastard?"

"Nothing, America."

He glowered at Russia and that stupid, probably super warm overcoat and scarf he was wearing. _Won't even help me or lend me his scarf—wait, no, I wouldn't take it in the first place! What am I thinking?_

As if he could read his mind, Russia reached into his coat, pulling out a spare scarf. He then expertly wrapped it around America's neck, to America's surprise. "Let us go, Товарищ."

America could feel his face heating up, despite the snow clinging to his shirt. "Where did you get this? Is there a weapon in here or something? A collar that'll pop out and choke me to death—"

"No, America. That is my scarf, the one my sister Ukraine made. I keep two in case the one I am currently wearing gets…sullied." He took a long look at the blond before continuing, "I refuse to carry you if you fall ill. That is all."

"I-I see…" Maybe Russia really did care about him…

"Oh, one more thing, America…"

America looked up, his heart pounding. "Yes?"

"If you in any form damage that scarf, I will have your head, da?"

Okay, so he was imagining everything. America muttered a response and shrank back into Russia's scarf, inhaling the scent of flower pollen and Braginski—vodka and the faint hazy smell of cigarettes. He hated it, but there was something intoxicating about the scarf that he did not tear it away from himself.

The pair walked down the street to hail a taxi, and America couldn't help but think about the photos the boys had left behind (whether that was done on purpose or merely accidental, he didn't know).

He wondered if they looked like the couple from the pictures.

* * *

_November 30, 1960, Munich, West Germany, 3:54 P.M… _

Germany had left early in the morning to his office, or at least that was what Italy told the girls. Aloisa made no attempt to ask Italy to take them outside, and Italy didn't bring it up. Instead, they were having tea while Italy pretended to read the newspaper.

"Um…Feliciano…?"

He looked up, smiling slightly. "Yes, Felicita?"

"Are you feeling okay?"

Italy blinked. "Of course. Why do you ask?"

She ignored Aloisa's reproachful looks and pressed on. "Do you mind if we start searching again?"

His mouth formed a small 'O' as he picked up the teapot "T-that's right. I almost forgot. Let me just put this in the sink and we'll head out."

Five minutes later, Italy, Aloisa, Felicita, and all three dogs were on the streets, headed for the park. None of the dogs were on leashes, since Berlitz brought the other two back to Aloisa whenever they strayed too far. They seemed glad to be outside, after such a long time of inactivity indoors. Felicita went ahead, nudged onwards by Aster and Blackie, who seemed quite eager to play with her.

"What do your parents look like?" Italy prompted.

Was that what she told Italy? She was pretty certain that she'd stated that she was here with a guardian, not her parents. "Um…my mom has brown hair…and she has this curl like yours. And she's really pretty."

Italy laughed. "That narrows it down."

The girl wanted to keep it as generic as possible, but it didn't look like Italy believed her. "My mom is Italian. She taught me some Italian phrases, but I take classes, too."

"Really?" Italy pondered this. "You know, when I first saw you, I thought you were German."

"I am. My dad is German."

Italy caught his breath, but recovered quickly. "I see. And your dad, what does he look like?"

Aloisa bit her lip. "He's blond."

"Uh-huh."

"His hair is slicked back. He has blue eyes. He looks scary but he's really nice."

Italy's smile was frozen in place. "But that sounds like—"

"And he is always with my mom. And he always finishes the pasta Mom makes because he knows that makes her happy. I don't think he likes it that much, though." She stopped; the last sentence was sort of irrelevant, but she was on a roll.

They were silent for a while, until Aloisa spoke up. "You and Mr. Ludwig…are a lot like my parents. My dad acts like he's mad, but he's not. He concentrates too much about problems in the present and forgets about what really matters…"

He regarded her kindly. "Thank you for the advice, but our case is…completely different…Ludwig's been through a lot—"

"And so have you."

"Well—"

"You said that Gilbert lives in East Germany, right?"

Italy nodded. "That's right."

Aloisa stared straight ahead. It wouldn't hurt to tell her mom this one thing, would it? "I should warn you...that Gilbert won't be returning until Germany becomes unified."

"What do you mean 'unified'?" Italy asked warily. "I'm not sure if West and East—"

"I'm saying that he's not coming back for a while, and that Ludwig will just have to deal with it." Aloisa saw Italy's panicked expression and consoled him, "Don't worry. It's only a while."

"How do you know that? Gilbert's been coming back and forth—"

"For now, at least." Aloisa looked up at Italy, hopeful. "I think you should spend the holidays with Ludwig."

"Oh no, I couldn't—"

"He needs you."

"He doesn't," Italy replied stubbornly.

She knew it was risky, but it felt like she would lose her parents if she didn't do something. "The war's over, but it's still eating at him on the inside. Please take him to the Christmas market, Feliciano."

His eyes widened in shock. "How do you know that—?"

That was when Felicita decided to come running back, yelling, "Aloisa! There's a pedophile up ahead! He's chasing me!" Moving behind Aloisa, she pointed ahead, where a shadow of a man was coming closer.

Aster and Blackie rushed back to the group and bared their teeth at the stranger, who chuckled. "I do apologize," he said. "I've mistaken you for my Lovi, I'm sorr—_Feliciano_?" He blinked, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. "Is that you, Feliciano?"

Italy put one hand on his mouth, then burst out in a peal of laughter. "What are you doing here, Antonio?"

_Antonio... That name sounds familiar—_

_Wait. _

_No. Way._

Spain grinned and pulled Italy in a hug, chuckling. "I'd never thought I'd see you here. I'm here with my dear Lovi. He was looking for you, and he didn't want come here alone—ah, there you are my dear Lo—_u-ugh_…"

The man groaned and doubled over, clutching his stomach where Romano had punched. Romano, on the other hand, was breathing hard and his face flushed with anger.

"How could you leave me in the market?" he screamed. "I could've gotten lost and kidnapped by the Potato's people and killed and it'd be your fault! Bastard!"

Spain managed to wheeze out, "I-I was looking for you—"

"Like hell you were! You were busy chatting up some guy in the street—oh, Veneziano, it's you." Romano's face instantly relaxed into a neutral expression, but just as quickly furrowed into a scowl as he remembered exactly why he was here. "_You!_ I was looking for you since yesterday! Somehow I knew you'd be here with the Potato, I just knew! You know, when the war ended I thought you were on bad terms with him, but apparently I was wrong! Leaving the house without a word and gone for two days! You could be dead for all I knew!"

"I'm sorry, _fratello_," Italy said quietly. "I was going to come straight home, but then some things happened—"

Before Romano could begin his rant all over again, Aloisa stepped in and attempted to save her mother from any more verbal bashing. "It's not his fault, Mister. He was helping us find our parents."

Romano's mouth opened, then closed; then he stuttered, "My God! You're the Potato's spawn!"

Aloisa blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You're his daughter! You have that blond hair and his eyes and everything! H-how did he even—I don't want to know!"

Damn, Felicita's mom was really sharp sometimes. Aloisa chuckled nervously, wringing her hands defensively. "I am not! I wouldn't be looking for my parents if he was my dad, would I?"

Romano frowned, but he wasn't about to give up so easily. "Well then, you wouldn't mind me accompanying my brother on your search, would you?"

"_Fratello_…"

She ignored Italy and answered as nonchalantly as she could. "O-of course not. Right, Felicita—wait. Felicita?" Aloisa turned around, only to be met by three doggy faces peering up at her patiently from their spot on the ground. "Ahaha…seems like my friend has left—oh, there you are!"

Sometime during the moment Romano was yelling at Italy, Felicita and Spain had slipped away together to the Christmas market (because truthfully, she didn't see the harm in that). Now she was heading back alone, her arms laden with little paper bags and appearing very content. Aloisa would probably get mad at her, but she had churros, and that was enough for her.

She waved excitedly. "Aloisa! They sell churros in the market! How bizarre is that?"

"You snuck away to eat churros?" _With your dad, too? Am I the only one who's losing my mind here? Doesn't she find this strange?_

"My Papa—er, Mr. Carriedo said he would buy them for me as an apology. He'll be right back, he said he had to buy something for his friend. So what are you doing now…oh, yeah..." Felicita slowed to a halt as her mother stared at her in astonishment.

"Mio Dio!" he whispered, gaping at Felicita's hair curl. "You look like…y-you—"

"I'm her cousin," Aloisa interrupted hastily. "She's not…anyone you know."

He glared at the blond, but he found that he couldn't spit out a comeback. There was something unnerving about Felicita that reminded him greatly of Spain and himself. And it almost seemed like Felicita was trying to avoid making eye contact with him. Something was seriously wrong with the two girls, and he'd find out what it was if it was the last thing he did.

Felicita and Aloisa did not speak to one another, for fear that Romano would figure something out (which was actually quite possible, surprisingly), but they were thinking the same thing: they had been right yesterday night. Felicita's parents did show up, only not for tea.

Now if _Onkel_ Gilbert popped out with beer, just like she had jokingly said, Aloisa decided that she'd laugh herself silly before anything.

* * *

_November 30, 1960, Central Park, Manhattan, 11:05 A.M…_

Ludwig was the first one to wake up, but he felt like he'd drank too much the day before, and his head was about to split open. The throbbing pain in his temple went away after a few seconds, however, and his mind suddenly registered where he was when he realized that it was daytime, and the sun was beating down on him, and that there was snow on the ground.

He sat up and nearly panicked when he didn't see Feliciano at first, but he spotted them, along with Antonio and Lovino, a few yards away, each deep asleep on a separate park bench.

The blond had gone on walks with Feliciano here between World Meetings often enough to know his exact location. But his _bruder_ was no where to be seen; the idiot must've wandered off, and that was not a happy thought at all.

As he gently shook Feliciano awake, he hoped that Arthur had sent all of them to the right time period, not just to the other side of the country.

* * *

_November 30, 1960, park, London, 4:05 P.M…_

When Arthur opened his eyes, the first thing he heard was the high pitch giggling of teenage girls that reminded him of those fangirls that crowded around him when he last visited Japan. The second thing he noticed was that his head was resting on something soft and fleshy and warm and that someone was running their fingers through his hair.

"Have you a nice sleep, _mon cher_?"

Arthur sprang up immediately and backed away from Francis, who was surrounded by schoolgirls furiously penciling in the last few details in their sketchbooks. "What the hell, Francis!"

"I apologize, ladies. I do not think my Arthur would want to pose for you, now that he is awake." He leered at a brunette and grasped her hand. "However, if you ever need Big Brother Francis to pose for you, I'm sure we can arrange something in _private_."

All the girls squealed and the brunette shook her hand free in embarrassment, although she was obviously pleased. "Thank you very much, Mr. Bonnefoy!" she exclaimed in a thick British accent as she closed her sketchbook with a snap, as did all the other students.

"Of course, _ma cherie_~"

After all the girls had left, Arthur trudged up to the Frenchman angrily and pointed in their direction. "What was that all about?"

"Art students," Francis said smoothly. "They wanted models, so I offered. That one girl, Bethany, was particularly charming. I think their sketches will turn out positively marvelous—"

Arthur slapped his palm to his forehead. "Francis, how long have I been out?"

"Long enough for the girls to draw three pictures."

"My God."

Francis brushed his hair back and presented Arthur with a sketch. "Miss Amelia was kind enough to give me her illustration to keep. It is quite professional, she should really sell this to a gallery… It's a close-up of you, _mon cher_. I think you look rather like Rose from _Titanic _in this position, don't you think?"

He snatched the picture, his cheeks flaring up. "No, I do not, frog!"

Judging from the accent Bethany had, Arthur guessed that they were in England. That meant that either it just sent them to another country or the portal worked (he hoped it was the latter). Good thing for him, though. Maybe he could find his old assistant…what was his name? Charles Mattson, he remembered. Perhaps he could help in some way.

But there was one problem—he did not know where Gilbert or the other nations were. Oh, he was pretty sure that Ludwig, Feliciano, Antonio, and Lovino could take care of themselves, but Gilbert has no idea what was going on. Which meant that he was definitely going to screw up the timeline, with him being Gilbert and all.

Arthur wasn't sure if he'd get anywhere with Francis in a tow, especially when the two of them were attracting attention even when they weren't doing anything. _First things first: we need to find Charles— _

"Arthur, when we get home, I shall frame this picture and keep it forever~"

"Give that back, you git!"

* * *

_November 30, 1960, park near the Christmas market, Munich, West Germany, 5:05 P.M…_

It was as if whatever power controlling the portal had gently placed Gilbert and on the park bench on which the man was currently sprawled on, like it felt sorry for him or something. Gilbert snored loudly and didn't wake up until a chunk of snow fell from the tree above and landed in his wide-open mouth.

With a start, Gilbert clutched his throat and hacked whatever was left of the snow out, and in the process he also rolled off the bench. Madly, he scooped up a fistful of snow, prepared to throw it at his attacker. When he found out that there was no one in the vicinity, he dropped the snowball and looked around carefully: he was in a public park, he was in an unknown town, there was—hold on.

He'd just picked up snow.

But it didn't snow where he lived. In fact, it never snowed.

So…that meant he wasn't in California, his so-called 'brilliant' mind deduced. Gilbert blinked when he realized that his two packs of beer and souvenirs from Canada had also arrived here with him, and were sitting on the bench innocently.

He bet Arthur, that creepy occult-obsessed bastard, was playing a joke on him when he fell through the shiny holographic frame. Cackling gleefully, he picked up his stuff and began walking down the street towards the city lights. If he was dreaming up the whole thing, he might as well enjoy it and have an awesome time. That'll show Arthur to not mess with him again.

After all, he had nothing to fear when he had his two packs of beer.


	10. Chapter 10

**This is another one of those in-between chapters like the last one, so it's short. Dammit, I'd wanted to make it longer. ._.;; I'm hoping to put more Evangeline and France in the next chapter. Someone remind me. LOL.**

**Thank you guys for all the favs/reviews/alerts! My God, ten chapters already? For that…we must celebrate…with a fanart! **

**Notes: -**http :/iheartnargles. deviantart. com/art /Cousins- 195541356 (link also on my profile)! It's Aloisa and Felicita being best buds/cousins~ Doesn't it look like they're from a show from Cartoon Network? 8D (But then again, if CTD/PTP was a cartoon, they'd take out the mpreg and the Adr/Ale and change them into best friends instead of lovers. Or maybe they'll turn Alec into a girl just to spite the yaoi-happy population. LE GASP. XD) Thank you so much, iheartnargles!  
-Charles from James's school and the Charles that is England's assistant are two different people.  
-Two sidestories coming up. Hey guys, tell me how you feel about an Adr/Ale sidestory. Do you want that? 8D

**EDIT**: NEW FANART. I LOVE YOU GUYS ;A; It's Romano and Felicita (hands LOL). FFFF-SO CUTE. :'D **h t t p :/ staneshiftthewolf. deviantart. com/#/ d38w6iv**  
BTW doujinshi is being updated, so be patient~ Thank you! =^u^=

**Sp/grammatical mistakes and DM linked words will be corrected after publication.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. **

* * *

_November 30, 1960, England's house, London, England, 4:55 P.M…_

Alec wondered if England was getting fed up with him. Ruses can only last so long, and England had been pacing around in the house anxiously, raising his head to look at the flowers Alec supposed America sent and towards the phone. Alec had barely missed the police department when they were walking around London; he avoided Trafalgar Square and James's school for obvious reasons, although he thought that he'd seen the boy near the park. But that was only a glimpse from yards away, so it could've been anyone.

And that probably explained why he saw two men who looked like his parents on a park bench, surrounded by rabid schoolgirls. Of course, that was impossible…

England got up from his place on the armchair and grabbed his coat. "I'm going to my office for a bit. Don't wander out on your own." He needed some time alone to himself, and he was willing to leave a stranger in his house. What could Alec do, anyways?

Alec also wondered if England had gotten used to him being there, or he was just very trusting. "Sure."

The front door swung opened and it closed with a click, and Alec was left alone in England's living room. This England, Alec decided, was somewhat reclusive. As if his head was in a fog and he didn't know what to make of Alec. The boy walked over to the table which America's roses were placed and brushed the fallen petals into the trashcan. His attention was then caught by France's Christmas market invitation, which seemed to have moved from their original place—

Alec started as the doorbell rang, a tinkling, light noise that jarred him out of his thoughts. He was about to sneak upstairs and peek out the window to see who it was when the stranger knocked, his muffled voice calling out, "Mr. Kirkland! There is an urgent letter for you! Mr. Kirkland? Are you home?"

It sounded like England's assistant…what was his name? Might've started with a C, but Alec wasn't sure. He opened the door and stared right back at England's assistant, who regarded him with a curious expression.

"Hullo," he began cautiously. "Aren't you…aren't you the boy I saw with Mr. Kirkland last time?"

Alec's hands drummed the doorframe nervously. "Yes, I am…"

"Are you related to him…?"

From the corner of his eyes, Alec could see Charles fiddle with an unopened letter. "Yes. I'm his cousin. Alec."

Charles's hand almost seemed to give, but his face was still calculating. "Mr. Kirkland doesn't have any cousins from what I know of—"

"We're very, er, distantly related. I'm his brother's cousin's nephew."

Charles blinked as he tried to work out the relations. "Brother's cousin's—"

"Right! Anyways, you have a letter for my Mam—um, Mr. Kirkland?"

The assistant gave Alec one last suspicious look before handing him the envelope. "It is from Mr. Francis Bonnefoy, and apparently is it of utmost importance that it gets to Mr. Kirkland as soon as possible."

Alec shrugged and was about to slip the letter on a nearby table when he noticed writing scrawled onto the back of the envelope. Slowly and perhaps a little hopefully, Alec scanned the cursive: _Evangeline Bonnefoy_.

"W-what is this? Who is this?"

The man leaned in and squinted. "I believe that says, _Evangeline Bonnefoy_. It's only the name of Mr. Bonnefoy's assistant, she's probably related to him. Usually it is Jacqueline who sorts his letters, however."

Evangeline Bonnefoy. That was his sister's name. She must be in France with their dad! So that meant that he absolutely had to convince England to take him to France. Slipping into his shoes, Alec wrapped Adrian's scarf around his neck and grabbed Charles's wrist, pulling him along.

"What are you doing? Unhand me!"

Alec didn't even turn around at first. "We're going to find Mr. Kirkland and give the letter to him. He said he went to his office, so I need you to lead me there!"

"But I promised my wife—"

Angry blue eyes glared back at the assistant. "Really, Charles!"

There was something about Alec's expression and the tone that he used which reminded Charles greatly of Arthur Kirkland. The boy had the same frown and eager glint in his eyes that could only belong to someone related to his boss. Letting Alec drag him across the streets and towards the park, he motioned with his free hand a shortcut to Arthur Kirkland's office.

He guessed that he would've been late for supper anyways.

* * *

_November 30, 1960, park near Christmas market, Munich, West Germany, 5:45 P.M…_

Ten minutes later Gilbert found out something was wrong. Everyone, for some reason, spoke German. Well, _that_ didn't pose as a problem for him, because he was certain that his German was beyond awesome, but there was another thing. Each and every car he saw were these station wagon things. It's not like he had anything against classic car models, he knew that rich old people (or at least those that could still drive) liked to drive those types of cars, but these were middle-age-sort-of-youngish people zooming past him in station wagons with new paint jobs. And he did not know what to make of that. It was as if he'd been thrown back in time or something…

He continued along the sidewalk, passing mothers pushing these ancient-antique strollers and children bundled up in dark winter jackets. As two laughing children passed by Gilbert, one chasing the other, he called out to them in German, "_Hey kid! Hold on a second!_"

The two stopped and cocked their heads at Gilbert. "_Yes, mister_?" they replied, confused.

"_You know where this is? I think I'm lost_." His arms were getting sore from carrying his souvenirs and beers.

The first kid approached a bit closer and grinned. "_Are you here for the Christmas market, mister? It's okay,_ _München__ is a big place, sometimes I get lost, too."_

Gilbert scoffed. "_Kid, I'm a grownup, and awesome people like me don't get_—_did you say_ _München?_"

He nodded. "_Sure did! Christmas market is just around the corner there, so you can just keep walking down this street. Woah, mister, what's the matter now? Does your head hurt?_"

The silver-haired man waved the boy away, but his right hand still clutched his forehead. That English bastard actually sent him to Munich. Now how the hell was he supposed to get home? He had less than twenty American dollars in his wallet.

"_I'm fine, kid. Thanks for the directions_…"

He appeared unconvinced. The man had been mumbling and being all disoriented, and he was sure that people didn't act like that normally. "_Are you on drugs, mister_? _Your eyes are red_."

"_W-wha—they're supposed to be like that! Goddammit.._."

"_Whatever you say, mister_."

And so Gilbert went down the street once more, towards the Christmas market that was in Munich in Germany with no usable currency. This was about the point when he realized that he was, in fact, nearly screwed.

All he could do now what walk towards the market. He swore that he was definitely going to get back at Arthur for transporting him to another country.

* * *

_Other side of the park, near Christmas market, 5:45 P.M…_

They had ditched Romano and Spain only thirty minutes ago, and that had not been easy at all. Romano, despite what Felicita had said about her Mama being absentminded, followed Aloisa's movements and hung on her every word like a hawk. Italy was too quiet to be much of a help, and Felicita were off to a corner chatting with her dad at a million miles per hour and eating their churros. Whether it was good news or bad news, it seemed like Felicita had difficulty grasping how serious the situation was, because she almost looked like she was having fun.

Unable to persuade Italy to come home, Romano and Spain retreated to their hotel ("Like I want to stay out in the Potato's land! What—Christmas market? It's the potato's Christmas market, what do I care? Let's go back, Antonio."), but them having booked a hotel room meant that they were staying in West Germany, and so therefore Aloisa would surely encounter them again. She had told Blackie, Aster, and Berlitz to go home when they wouldn't stop jumping on Romano, and now she was really mentally bashing herself for believing that the dogs could actually understand her. She wondered if being in 1960 was making her paranoid.

Aloisa pulled Felicita to her side and hissed in her ear. "What were you thinking?"

"Huh?"

"Talking with your dad like that! Do you want us to be discovered?" Throwing a backward glance as Italy, she turned back to her cousin. "What were you two talking about?"

Felicita held up her hands defensively. "He was only telling me stories, but they're all about tomatoes. Well, that's what I expected anyways—"

"Felicita, don't you find this a little weird?"

"Not really," she answered, giving her head a small shake, "no."

Aloisa crossed her arms. "Oh, so it's just me that's acting up. I'm the crazy one."

"No, no, no, I didn't mean that at all! You're not crazy—wait a minute, is that your uncle?"

"Not funny, Felicita."

"No, seriously, he's waving at us from over there."

The blond sighed. "I know what I said last night. I was just kidding about Onkel Gilbert showing up, so you can stop being all sarcastic—"

Felicita shook Aloisa's shoulders and made her look straight ahead. "Tell me that's not your uncle and I swear I'll shut up for the rest of the day."

"Okay, that's not my—uh…that does look like Onkel Gilbert…"

Italy placed his hand on Aloisa's shoulder and looked at her strangely. "What's the matter, Aloisa?" Then he saw what Aloisa was staring at, and his eyes immediately widened. "Is that…is that Gilbert?"

Aloisa stammered back, "I-I don't know—"

"Hey! Hey, Aloisa! Is that your Mutti?"

Gilbert wanted to cry manly tears by that point, but that was totally unawesome and besides, he never cried. Picking up his legs and dashing towards the three, he was prepared to give Aloisa's Mutti a huge hug (his brother wouldn't mind…would he?) until he slipped on a path of ice four feet away and glide-crashed into Italy.

"Gilbert!"

He scrambled off and helped the Italian up frantically. "Aw, damn, Feli, I'm really sorry, please don't tell West—woah!" He patted Italy on the back hesitantly when the man wrapped his arms around his shoulders and held on tight. He didn't oppose of that, not at all, but he had a feeling that if West saw this he'd be in trouble. "What's the matter, Feli?"

Aloisa bent down and picked up Gilbert's fallen shopping bags. "Beer…and…what's this?"

"Oh, those are souvenirs I bought in Canada, but they're mostly dog toys and stuff. Um, Feliciano, you can let go now."

She gaped. "Canada—?" This wasn't Prussia, this man was actually her Onkel Gilbert! But how—?

Italy didn't release Gilbert, but he pushed back and beamed at him jubilantly. "I'm so glad you're here! But how did you leave? Didn't Toris come to bring you back?"

His mouth opened and closed, sort of like a fish, Felicita thought. "Leave where?"

Behind Italy, Gilbert could see Aloisa making big X's with her arms and shaking her head rapidly. He blinked at Italy and stuttered out, "Uh…I snuck…out."

"But didn't he notice?"

_Who's 'he'? _"No…?"

Italy gave Gilbert one of the most heartwarming smiles Aloisa had seen since she met the 1960 Italy (though it wasn't like her mom in the past smiled at all). "It doesn't matter. Ludwig will be delighted! You must stay for the Christmas market at least, Gilbert!"

"Feliciano, you know I can't—no! Don't cry! Please don't cry, West will kill me. I'll stay for the market, okay? But why are you in Munich?" He was so sure that he'd last seen Feliciano at England's house, and he was also sure that that was in America.

"Oh…I know, I should be going back with _fratello_, but I promised Aloisa and Felicita…so…"

"Promised them what?"

Aloisa dragged Gilbert away hurriedly in case the man blurted out some more nonsense. "Excuse me for a moment, Feliciano…" Turning to her Onkel, she grabbed his shirt and attempted to glare at him, even though she was very, very glad someone showed up. "What do you think you're doing? How did you get here?"

"England sent me, that tea-drinking bastard—"

"England…so they're looking for us! Felicita, our parents are looking for us!"

Gilbert took the shopping bags from his niece and slung them over his shoulder. "You don't need their help," he cackled. "Not when you have someone as awesome as me—"

Lowering her voice to a rather frightening pitch and dragging Gilbert closer to her level, she seethed, "You don't know where we are right now. We are in Munich. In 1960. We still need to find England's kids and America's kids. Now tell me: exactly how did you get here?"

His grin became frozen in place. "Nineteen…sixty…?"

"Yes, 1960—w-what's the matter—Onkel Gilbert—get off of me, what's wrong with you…? Felicita, he's not waking up!"

He might have brought along two packs of beer, but even _he_ knew that two packs of beer would not be of much use in 1960. As unawesome and girlish as fainting was, it looked like a pretty good option at that moment.

* * *

_November 30, 1960, park, London, England, 4:55 P.M…_

"Francis, people are looking at us."

"Only because you are so beautiful, _mon cher_."

Arthur's eye twitched as he slapped Francis's hand away. "No. It's because you keep groping my ass every five seconds."

"I can't help it, Arthur—_ow_, okay, okay, I'll stop." Francis sighed and rubbed his cheek, where Arthur had slammed his hand in. "We've been looking around this park for a while now. We are walking in a circle."

"But I am so sure Alec is here," Arthur argued tiredly. "I just know he's here…"

"I thought we were looking for your assistant."

"We are. But I thought I saw Alec—"

"Arthur, do you remember how we started dating?"

His face flushed considerably. "Yeah. At your Christmas market, wasn't it? Why are you asking?"

Francis blinked and shook his head. "Nothing. For some reason I'm remembering this more clearly. Must have something to do with the 1960s."

Arthur turned away, biting his lip in embarrassment. "It's probably just you, frog."

"Maybe so, but I—_agh_!"

The Englishman took a step back as a running teenager collided into Francis head-on, the two of them toppling backwards onto the pavement. "Aw damn, I'm sorry!" the boy cried.

"Watch where you're going, boy!" Arthur said irritably, helping Francis up. "Can't you see we're—bloody hell, _Alec_…?"

Said boy continued to stare at Francis wordlessly with a horrified expression, his hand pressed against his lips. Sure, he'd been looking for England (and he thought he was pretty lucky to have bumped into him), and he would've counted France being with England a bonus. But…

…but if he was here, then where was Evangeline?

* * *

_November 30, 1960, Central Park, Manhattan, 11:55 A.M…_

Lovino stomped his foot and jabbed one finger in Ludwig's chest repeatedly with each enunciated word. "This. Is. Not. Happening!" he shrieked. "This is not fucking happening, do you hear me, potato brain? We can't be separated from England, we'll fucking die here!"

Feliciano popped up from behind Ludwig with an ice cream cone. "Ve~ It's not so bad! We won't die here, _fratello_. Besides, the ice cream is really cheap!"

A vein visibly throbbed in Lovino's temple. "You gave the vendor _modern money? _Are you insane?"

"You look angry, _fratello_…"

"Damn right I am!"

"Lovi, don't worry, England will show up! In the meantime, let's look around the city and maybe we might even find Felicita."

"Antonio…do you really think so?"

His Lovi was too cute. "I'm positive. Now then, Lovi, would you like a cheer-up charm?"

The ugly scowl returned immediately. "…_no_."

While Lovino continued to blabber out obscenities in Italian, Ludwig tried to ignore the staring passerbys and as best as he could. He could feel another headache coming on, and the situation was not making it any better.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Thank you for the favs/reviews/alerts! Argh, I had a cold so my mind got clogged up with sniffles and snot. Well, in the midst of all that, I actually got hit with several inspirations, so here's Chapter 11! **

**Sp/grammatical errors and DM linked words will be corrected after publication.**

**Notes: -**More fanarts! In this picture stars Aloisa with her frying pan, ready to knock Angelina and Gilbert silly~ And some Adr/Ale love there, too! And then some more under construction LOL! Thank you so much, my dear **Gilbird**~! :D **h t t p :/ weirdgirl 012. deviantart. com/** (all links on my profile).  
-And here's a sketch of Aloisa by **Lukais**! She's looking awesome~! 3 **h t t p :/ mikhail-somnia. /#/d39q4ao  
-**Wrote this chapter listening/watching to this AMV**: h t t p :/ www. you tube .com/ watch?v=E4-gcsjZB2A **Maybe 'cause it somewhat represents Germany slowly turning back into Ludwig, and plus it's still the holidays in this story. X3  
-I lost steam on the FrUK reunion. I'm sorry. oTL  
-present!Italy know that Germany is Holy Roman Empire, while 1960!Italy doesn't. Yet. 8D  
-(NEW) **h t t p :/ leopardheart11. deviant art. com/ gallery/#/ d39w5m2 **A group picture of the teens doing their everyday business (no, not that kind of business, LOL) by **Lawm Takaya**. It just...it captures their personalities so well. ;u; Thank you so much~!  
-(EDIT) Okay, the true BGM for 1960!GerIta scene is: **h t t p :/ www. youtube. com/ watch?v= ZTK3FCHYrJY&feature=channel**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

_November 30, 1960, Strasbourg, France, France's house, 6:43 A.M…_

Evangeline stalked the hallway quietly, carefully avoiding the steps that creaked as to not wake France. She'd made a marvelous breakfast (in reality, it was just eggs and toast, but she was hungry and didn't really care) and remembered to save a plate for France. She hoped the letter convinced England and that by some miraculous chance the man would be so moved into accepting the last-minute offer.

…the percentage of that actually happening was so low it pained her to think about it.

She was just about to tidy up the living room when she heard France groaning upstairs. _Must be that gash again, _Evangeline thought. Grabbing the first aid kit, she rushed up the steps and slipped into France's room, expecting to see the man sitting upright and holding his wound, but France was still lying down, his face scrunched up in anguish but otherwise seemed to be unconscious.

He wasn't awake yet, and Evangeline had no wish to disturb him, but the agonizing look on his face was unsettling, and she didn't want to leave him like this. Gliding to the side of the bed, she lifted his injured arm gingerly and undid the dressings, biting back her queasiness.

If France was human, a deep slit like this would've most certainly severed a main artery and proven a fatal cut. Binding the arm in clean linen quickly, she tucked his arm back under the sheets, although she didn't leave the room. Instead, she sat down and watched the lines on France's face relax and disappear, his breathing returning to normal.

She sighed softly and whispered partly to France, and partly to herself, "I want to go home."

France grunted and Evangeline's heart skipped a beat, but his eyes remained closed. Evangeline chewed on her lip and drew her knees against her chest. "I want to see Alec…and I want my parents." She paused. "I miss them, Mr. Bonnefoy."

France wasn't her dad yet, she was only talking to a guy who looked like him. She got up after a few minutes and laid her hand on her father's forehead. He breathed evenly but heavily, but he did not have a fever.

"Hey, Dad," she said finally, "get better soon, okay?"

The light shining through the heavy draperies was becoming brighter. As Evangeline breezed out the door, France's eyes opened hesitantly. He had been in a dream where he was fending off Germany, even with his tattered arm, and he had collapsed somehow. But then two civilians had run up to him and felt his forehead, and gradually the pain subsided.

"_Jeanne…?" _he said to one of them, his vision hazy.

It was a blond teenage girl, with sharp green eyes that smiled helplessly at him. _"Hey, Dad," _she said, _"get better soon, okay?"_

The other figure also knelt and placed a comforting hand on his hair. _"Git," _he muttered. _"Don't worry us like that." _

With a start, France realized that the two people that had appeared were Arthur Kirkland and that Evan Brown.

* * *

_November 30, 1960, Munich, West Germany, Germany's house, 6:12 P.M…_

Aloisa was rather surprised at her Mama's strength when he was compelled to and driven by sheer willpower. With his help, the girls lugged Gilbert back home and was immediately greeted by the dogs, who had raced back home just as Aloisa had ordered, and were rolling around leisurely on the front lawn.

"Open the door, Aloisa," Italy instructed gently. Gilbert was clearly getting too heavy for him to carry, but Italy pretended to not notice.

Aloisa had just placed her hand on the doorknob just as Germany flung the door open, his eyes trained on a deck of reports and his watch. The girl stopped abruptly. "Mr. Beilschmidt!"

He glanced up, "Aloisa—" Then his mouth dropped slightly as he watched Italy shuffle around with Gilbert on his back. "_Bruder_?"

Italy stammered, "We found him—and then he collapsed—"

Perhaps the wording had not been thought over properly, for Germany set aside his items and easily and carefully, slung Gilbert over his shoulders and carried him inside, his expression livid.

Closing the door and turning the lock, Felicita wondered if bringing the present Gilbert home was such a great idea.

* * *

_Fifteen minutes later…_

Gilbert's eyes fluttered open gradually when he felt a cool hand on his forehead. Maybe he was finally waking up from his insane dream, and he was still in Canada, and Matthew was in bed and next to him, begging in that adorable voice for him to wake up.

Reaching out and grabbing the person, he puckered up and was about to smash his lips onto Matthew when his eyes opened for real and saw a pair of light blue eyes staring at him, horrified. And the last time he checked, Matthew did not have blue eyes.

He pushed Germany back and scuttled backwards until he hit the frame of the bed. "Goddammit, West! I know I'm awesome and everything, but you have a wife to kiss, seriously…"

Germany looked at him strangely. "_Bruder_…are you feeling alright?"

"What the hell do you mean? I feel fine." He scratched his head. "Is Feli making dinner? I'm starving."

"Feliciano?" he repeated, dumbstruck. "Gilbert, you fainted. Did Braginski…did he do anything to you?"

"Who, America's hus—?" _Oh. Oh right._Behind Germany, Gilbert could see Aloisa glowering at him and Felicita biting her lip anxiously. "Braginski didn't do anything. H-he went on vacation. And then I awesomely snuck out to Cana—_no_! I mean, I snuck back here! Yeah, that's what I did…!"

"…I think you may have a fever, _bruder_—"

"I'm fine, West. I'm totally okay. C-can…can you leave me alone with, er, Aloisa and Felicita there?"

Germany seemed to be noticing the girls for the first time. He stood up and gave the girls an unreadable expression, but he didn't seem to be as stern or strangled as before. Nodding at them briefly, and exited the guest bedroom and Felicita had to restrain Aloisa from jumping on Gilbert.

"Calm down, Aloisa! I've got everything under control! I slipped, I'll admit that, but now I get it." He whipped out his cell phone and showed the blond frantically. "I'll call England right now and he can get us out of this mess."

Luckily for him, Aloisa's face relaxed and she looked at her uncle curiously. "England? You can call him?"

"Yeah, sure, why not?" Truthfully, he didn't know, but as clueless as Gilbert was, even he knew when to not provoke Aloisa. Flipping past the texts with Matthew to his speed dial menu, he scrolled down until he saw the tea drinking bastard's name (inside, Gilbert thought, _Why do I have him on my speed dial?_) He tapped the screen and the name, "Arthur Kirkland," began to flash under a pixel of a green phone.

* * *

_Outside in the living room…_

Germany worried for Gilbert greatly, but apparently his _bruder_ found the presence of those girls more comforting than his own. Nevertheless, he was glad that Gilbert had returned to his original (not to mention somewhat annoying) state. His breathing and mind did not feel so constricted, now that Gilbert had returned safe and sound, if not a little bit…changed. There was something about his speech and choice of words that felt different.

The entire week he had been agonizing over this matter, but now that Gilbert had arrived, the fact that he'd been so awful to himself and Feliciano began to sink in. He turned a corner and checked the kitchen, but the Italian wasn't there. The front door opened with the smallest of squeaks, but Germany heard it, and he raced to the living room.

"Feliciano!"

Italy cringed and turned his head to look fearfully at Germany. He already had on his coat and was preparing to slip out of the house. "I-I'm sorry, Germany. I'm about to leave…I hope Gilbert is feeling better…"

Germany grabbed Italy's hand determinedly and shut the front door with the other. "Don't go, Feliciano."

"Huh?"

"Please...don't leave."

The brunette's eyes widened and he brushed away a stray blond bang that had fallen onto Germany's forehead. "Germany…are you feeling alright?"

That sentence along could've made him crumple and drop to the floor. No matter how appalling he had been to Feliciano, the man would always put that aside and worry for him. The kindness he had…it was almost too much, and Germany knew he didn't deserve it. "Feliciano, I'm sorry."

"Eh?" Italy blinked. What was the matter with him? The only time he'd seen Ludwig so worked over and flustered was a long time ago, on one particular Valentine's Day. "Germany…"

The fact that Italy still thought of him as 'Germany' continued to stab at his chest. "I'm so sorry," he muttered.

After an unbearable pause, Italy spoke up, "Germany…I'll stay."

The blond stared at him incredulously and delightedly, but Italy wasn't done. "For the kids. I'll stay until they find their parents." Then he looked to the side and his eyes grow downcast and dull.

And Germany knew the exact reason, even thought he wished he didn't: a million "sorry's" would not be enough to pay for the lives lost because of him, and the heartache he'd cost Feliciano Vargas.

Despite who they were and what they've done, they were, in some aspect, only human.

* * *

_November 30, 1960, park, London, England, 5:12 P.M…_

"—bloody hell, _Alec_…?"

Alec stepped back and bumped into Charles, who was panting heavily from that short run. "Mr. Kirkland! Oh my god, I'm sorry! I know you told me to stay in the house but—but—" Dammit, he had no good explanation other than the letter, which sounded ridiculous and childish now that he was face to face with England.

Arthur looked at the other man disbelievingly. "And Charles is here, too?"

"I sincerely apologize, Mr. Kirkland, I told the boy—"

Surprising Alec and Charles, Arthur moved forward and hugged Alec tightly. "Oh God, Alec, don't worry us like that. Where's your sister?"

"My…sister?" Alec did a double-take and peered more closely at Arthur. "…_Maman_?"

Francis grinned suggestively at Charles, who arched his eyebrows. "Well, thank you very much for bringing our son to us. Now if you can find our daughter, too, that would be great—"

"Alec is…your son?"

"Shut up, frog! Charles, he didn't mean it like—oh great, look at what you did!"

Just as Gilbert had done, Charles's knees gave way and he crumpled to the cement like a rag doll. A group of astonished old ladies quickly strolled by and whispered to each other behind their hands. Arthur glared at Francis and flipped him off there and then, much to the shock of several onlookers.

"I'm very sorry, _mon cher_."

"Belt up, Francis."

Strangely, Alec was temporarily relieved that he'd found his parents. He didn't even mind the staring crowd and the fact that the police was probably going to show up soon. Because in his home, his mom believed in fairies and his dad would hit on anything that was alive, and he didn't think anything could be weirder than that.

But he also believed that nothing could be more endearing than his cracked up family moments. And that definitely included this one.

* * *

_November 30, 1960, restaurant, Paris, France, 8:35 A.M…_

Alfred slammed his hands on the table and leaned in, his eyes glinting. "Well then, boys, ready your breakfast and eat hearty…for tonight, we dine in…_France_!"

"_Mom_—"

Mikhail shushed his brother by driving his foot onto Adrian's. The plane ride had been an absolute horror; Aunt Natalia had conveniently situated herself between him and Adrian, and Alfred had not been in the best of moods because he was airsick (which was new, because Mikhail had never seen his mom get sick on an airplane). Ten minutes ago, for his mother's sake, the boys had finally persuaded Natalia to search around Paris for France or the other teens, and because they'd pleaded so sincerely (or at least that was what Natalia thought), Adrian was certain that they had a good three hours to themselves.

And so Alfred thought that the appropriate way to spend those three hours was to pig out in the most expensive restaurant he could find ("Because your dad's got money strapped to his overcoat. So why not?"). Once he'd gotten off the plane, Alfred looked fine and seemed prepared to eat up a storm.

"Anything you want, boys, we'll order it! God, I'm starving."

Adrian pointed at the words on the menu and frowned. "This is all in French." Too bad Alec wasn't here to help him. (In reality, Alec did try to teach Adrian some French, but for some reason they never got anywhere and Alec would wake up the next morning in bed next to Adrian wearing only his pajama top).

Alfred shrugged. "The waitress speaks English. I've been here before."

A few minutes later, a thin, beautiful lady appeared, her pen poised above her little notepad. "Are you ready to order?" she asked, smiling.

She had a barely-there French accent which reminded Adrian greatly of Alec. Randomly pointing to an item on the menu, he said, "I'll have…uh…whatever this is."

Mikhail closed his menu and handed it to the waitress. "I'll have whatever he's having."

Ivan barely looked up. "Coffee, please."

"I'll have a salad."

The waitress gathered up the menus and penned down the orders. "Anything else?"

Alfred shook his head. "No, thank you."

The other three at the table raised their heads and regarded Alfred with an alarmed expression. "Are you sure, Alfred?" Ivan questioned cautiously.

The American scowled. "What do you mean, 'Am I sure'? 'Course I'm sure."

"But Mo—erm, Mr. Jones, don't you want something else?" His mom hated salad; it was either McDonald for breakfast or three plates of egg and bacon. "You said you were starving—"

"No," he snapped. "What do you take me for, a pig?"

Ivan raised his eyebrows. "Well…"

"Shut up, guys."

After the waitress returned with their plates, Alfred approached Ivan with a question that seemed innocent enough. "Do I look fat, Ivan?"

"…no."

"Are you lying?"

"I am not."

"England said I was going to pop a button on my dress last time."

"'He is joking, Alfred."

"You look really skinny, Mom," Adrian added, trying to be helpful.

The boy bit back a screech when his mother attacked his salad with his fork savagely. "Thank you, Adrian."

"N-no problem…"

While green, leafy vegetables usually seemed to piss Alfred off, it actually looked like it was improving his mood. "We'll head to Strasbourg tomorrow by train or plane or…something. I want to look around in Paris today." His fork clattered to the bottom of the bowl as he thoughtfully tapped a finger on his lips. "Ivan, I wonder if our boss noticed we're gone."

"Probably." He paused. "Alfred, is your stomachache better?"

"Huh? Oh, oh yeah. Definitely." He pushed his half-eaten salad away. "I'm full."

"Coffee?" Ivan asked, lifting his cup, but immediately lowered it when Alfred made a clicking noise from his throat.

"No, thank you."

Alfred F. Jones had never turned down an invitation for coffee until now. Ivan couldn't think of any plausible explanation other than his wife was exceedingly pissed at him for something he did, but he wasn't sure what. "Would you like it if I took you and the boys to an ice cream parlor?"

The blond brightened instantly. "That'd be great!"

Ivan gave a mental sigh of relief; whatever he did, he probably made it up by offering ice cream to Alfred. But there was something suspicious about Alfred's behavior, and although it seemed very familiar, he couldn't put his finger on it.

_Oh well. As long as Alfred is happy. _

* * *

_November 30, 1960, Central Park, Manhattan, 12:12 A.M…_

"Ve, Ludwig…"

"What is it, Feliciano?"

"Would you mind if you let your hair down? Just temporarily…"

"…why?"

Ten minutes ago, Antonio had taken Lovino to a nearby Italian restaurant (which happened to conveniently located two blocks away), hoping that his little tomato would quiet down with his profanities if he was kept busy with pasta. Just the two of them walking down the park lane nearly took Ludwig's mind off finding Aloisa and England, but now he also sensed that people were ogling at him and whisper-murmuring behind their hands to their friends as they strolled by.

Feliciano shuffled around. "Well…it's not like I don't like you like this, but I think the others are scared of you, because you look really…really…stereotypical." He fluttered his lashes at the taller man. "And it _is_ 1960."

Ludwig exhaled in exasperation and complied. "Alright, Feli…"

The brunette giggled and ruffled the blond's bangs. "That's better. Ve, Ludwig, you look like Holy Roman Empire."

"Do I?"

Feliciano latched on to Ludwig's arm and smiled. "You sure do. You know, I was really surprised when I found out, and I'm glad you remembered." Another happy grin. "But I'll always love Ludwig as Ludwig, okay?"

God, he just had to say such embarrassing things. As flustered as Ludwig was, however, he didn't shake Feliciano off. "I know. You've told me before."

"Okay, then!" He paused. "…Ludwig, let's grab something to eat—"

Then out of nowhere, a short man with thick glasses popped up and cleared his throat. "Excuse me!" he interrupted. "I know this is sudden, but are you two interested in a modeling job?"

_Huh? _"Modeling jo—"

Feliciano untangled his arm from Ludwig and clasped his hands together. "Modeling? Ve, I design clothes, but I've never modeled…and I'm kind of hungry right now…"

The man didn't look like he was about to give up. This was an once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to actually find _two _cover models who could bring up the magazine sales, what great luck he had! "We have a buffet down at the studio—"

"Oh, I don't know. We're not from here, you see, and we're looking for someone really important—"

"—and I think the menu today is pasta or spaghetti—"

"…_really_? Ludwig, let's go!"

"Wait a minute, Feliciano—hold on—!"


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Oh my gosh guys, 200+ reviews? ;A; Thank you so much for staying with this story and all your support! You guys may not know this, but you've given me courage to post stories and continue them. I know that sounds cheesy and stupid, but as a newbie writer, I really mean it. I hope you enjoy Chapter 12! **

**Sp/grammatical errors and DM linked words will be corrected after publication. Geezuz, FFnet has been giving me a load of trouble these days. oTL**

**EDIT: I've had the worst flu known to man, or at least it seemed so to me. Sorry about the delay, folks.**

Notes:-Well, most of you guys guessed it in the last chapter about Alfred. LOL I'd meant the thing to be somewhat of a surprise, but then again, I'm Captain Way Too Obvious. oTL  
-**h t t p :/ weirdgirl012. deviant /#/ d3a0zun** This is beyond adorable. I want to puke rainbows and girlish joy, but that would be disgusting. EHEHEHEHE –squeals at Adr/Ale- Once again, thank you so much, **Gilbird**!  
-**h t t p :/ mikhail- somnia. deviant art. com/#/ d3a2zur** and **h t t p :/ mikhail-somnia. deviant art. com/#/ d3a49s2** by **Lukais**! More Adrian/Alec _and_ Evangeline! Oh man, the cuteness overload~ I'm going to…go crawl in a hole now…and spontaneously combust of cuteness overload.  
-**CTD/PTP profiles **by **karapuui**!—**h** **t t p :/ kandamuu. deviant art. com/ art/ Aloisa-Beilschmidt- 198611054** and **h t t p :/ kandamuu. deviant art. com/#/ d3aa62j** and **h t t p :/ kandamuu. deviant art. com/#/ d3adm2q** (links are also on my profile.) You guys have to check this out. They…they're just as I imagined. My gosh, they looks like they stepped out from the anime itself! 8'D More coming soon!  
-By the way, cell phones do work in 1960 (just imagine all their phones linked to one another), but they can only call to the people in 1960. The first example shown was Alec calling Evangeline, but she did not feel the vibrate.

**News**: -I've been hit with a burst of crackness and inspiration. I am currently working on a short **Inception/Hetalia** crossover (posted and WIP), and possibly a **Kate and Leopold/Hetalia** crossover. Both USUK. Oh my, I just adore writing the Inception crossover.  
-Truthfully I do not know what is going to happen to Paper Hearts. Pewpewpew.

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

_November 30, 1960, England's house, London, England, 5:20 P.M…_

"—arles…?"

"Don't wake him up, frog!"

"But what are we going to do with him, _Angleterre_? And to bring him here, of all places…"

Just five minutes ago, the three had narrowly dodged the police and maneuvered their way back to England's home with Charles in a tow. Dumping the oblivious assistant on the couch, Arthur instantly recognized the roses placed on the nearby table in embarrassment, and he shifted a little so he would block Francis's view of the vase.

"I can't just leave him on the streets." He sighed and turned to Alec. "I don't suppose you know where your sister or friends are, do you?" While they were sneaking to England's house, Alec had tried to tell his parents how he ended up in 1960, but apparently the boy was too surprised to have been articulate enough for Arthur to understand.

Alec stumbled forth with the letter he had taken from Charles. "It's got Evan's name on it. I-I don't know how though—"

The Brit took it and examined it closely; the return address and his address were written in his flowing cursive, typical of France. Creasing the corner of the envelope, he carefully ripped the top part and removed the letter, a piece of flimsy paper that smelled faintly of roses, but that was only to be expected. But there was something off about the way the words were penned that did not seem like France's handwriting.

Thrusting the paper at Francis, Arthur pointed at the blurred ink, trying to ignore the heat crawling steadily up his face. "Look at this, Francis. Do you see anything funny about it?"

Francis scanned the paragraph quickly and blinked. "What's wrong with it?"

"God, Francis, do you need me to read it to you?"

He gazed at Arthur amusedly, then answered in a suggestive tone, "Why, _mon cher_, I never knew you to be that fond of my _lettres d'amour_, but if you insist—"

Arthur's face flushed ever further (if that was possible) and clutched the paper tighter. "No, git, I meant the handwriting." As aggravating and froggish as Francis was, Arthur understood perfectly that Francis would never make a mistake as careless as smudged ink. "Do you remember writing this?"

"Perhaps, _Angleterre_…"

"Do you…do you think it's Evangel—"

A small, buzzing motion in Arthur pocket broke him off mid-sentence. Arthur took out his cell phone and stared at the screen incredulously, mouthing the displayed name. "It's Gilbert…"

Brushing his fingertip over the touch screen, he held it up next to his ear and answered hesitantly. "Hello?"

The line crackled and silence followed, then, "_…holy shit, this does work. Is that you, England?"_

Arthur held the phone tightly in an attempt to hear Gilbert's barely-there voice. "…Gilbert?"

Francis laid a hand on his shoulder, alarmed by the Brit's sudden change of expression. "_Angleterre_…? Is everything alright?"

On the other hand, Arthur heard some more shuffling and heavy breathing, and out of nowhere, Gilbert began shrieking in his raspy tone, sounding quite furious. "_You tea-drinking, occult-loving_ _bastard! How dare you send the awesome me to 1960? I promised Matthew I'd call when I got home, and now what am I supposed to do—agh, give the phone back, Aloisa!" _

Arthur peered at Charles every once in a while, waiting for the scrambling noises on the other end to die out; even without putting it on speakerphone, Alec and Francis could easily hear Aloisa's uncle. But Charles, either he had had a very long day or was just a heavy sleeper, did not seem to hear Gilbert's less than awesome yell.

The line came back to life. "_Mr. Kirkland? This is Aloisa…"_

"Yes, it's me, Aloisa. Where are you right now?"

If the girl had sounded confident before, after she heard Arthur's voice her own voice trembled, and whatever brave façade she had on crumbled. _"We're in Munich, M-mr. Kirkland. Felicita and I are at Germany's house, and we pretended that we were looking for our parents so he'd give us a place to stay, and Onkel Gilbert just appeared today, I don't know from where, but they think he's the 1960 Gilbert—" _A background noise shouted, "Canada!" at that moment. "—_Mr. Kirkland, Italy is also here, but they're fighting and it's awful…"_

Aloisa had said all of this in such a frantic jumble that Arthur had to repeat some lines to himself under his breath. "Don't worry, we'll be right there. You just stay put and don't leave Munich, you hear me?"

"…_okay."_

"Listen, Aloisa, we've got Alec here, but we think that Evangeline is in France, in Strasbourg. That's not too far from Munich, so we're going make a stop there before we come over, alright?" He looked over at the Frenchman for confirmation, but Francis was hovering over Charles, peering interestedly in the assistant's face.

"_I understand."_

A couple more hollow exchanges later, Arthur hung up the phone and threw a look at Francis. "They're in Munich with Gilbert. Aloisa and Felicita—_Francis, what are you doing_?"

"_Mon cher_, he looked like he had trouble breathing, so I—"

"Put his clothes back on!"

* * *

_November 30, 1960, hotel, Paris, France, 2:12 P.M…_

"The boys are in their room, Alfred—Alfred?"

Ivan looked around the suite but found no signs of the blond. He'd been changing from mood to mood every since they'd left the ice cream parlor, not to mention buying anything and everything he wanted in the department stores, shooting Ivan a dirty look if his husband was a little bit slow in taking out his wallet. Then Alfred had disappeared inside the mall restroom and emerged in his newly bought clothes as Allie; not that Ivan opposed, but the fact that Alfred was attracting random men wherever he walked _was_ bothering him.

"Alfred?"

No response. Ivan sighed and settled in an armchair near the window. What could be wrong? The American seemed to be zoning out more often, and more getting more irritable by the second (perhaps Natalia was rubbing off of him…) So where could he have gone to—?

The door knocked, breaking off his train of thoughts. He took his pipe (just in case) and warily approached the hotel door. What if the 1960 him and America had caught up to them and were waiting with giant war axes and hamburgers? Not that hamburgers would hurt or the two would actually pair up at this time in history, but what if…?

The door creaked open, and Ivan tightened his grip on his pipe, expecting it to be someone dangerous. "Yes…?"

A nasally French voice answered, talking rapidly and shoving a giant bouquet of roses in Ivan's face. "_This is for Miss Allie! Can you tell her that I just wanted to—"_

The door slammed shut and the Russian threw the flowers aside. Just as he was contemplating smashing the roses to shreds with his pipe he felt a pair of arms wrapping around him from behind.

"What's the matter, Vanya?"

It was Alfred, still in Allie mode (Ivan wondered if he was stuck like that or something), a towel tangled around his thin frame and blond locks slightly damp. What was strange…was that Alfred hadn't called him by his nickname for a long time.

"Alfred…?"

The blond didn't release Ivan, and instead tried to look over his shoulders at the flowers. "Who sent those?"

He felt his eye twitch. "I do not know."

Silence, then, "Hey…Vanya?"

"Mm?"

"You want to…want to do it?"

Ivan turned around this time, startled. "What?"

Alfred took his chance and pushed the man back on the bed, deftly straddling him in the process. He hadn't noticed how alluring Alfred was when he wanted to be. "I've been mean all day to you, I don't know what came over me. I'll make it up now."

So…Alfred hadn't been pissed, just sexually frustrated? Maybe he _was_ worrying over nothing… "Alfred…"

The American's lips turned up as he leaned forward, but at the very last moment, his head suddenly fell limp and his entire body went slack. Ivan sat up immediately, attempting to steady his wife. "Alfred! Alfred, what's wrong—"

_H-he…he fell asleep! _

Okay, there was definitely something wrong with Alfred, especially to fall asleep at a time like this.

* * *

_November 30, 1960, studio, Manhattan, 12:48 A.M…_

"Ludwig, Ludwig! Look! They put me in a dress! Don't I look so vintage?"

"W-wha—why are you wearing that?"

"Ve, they said their original female model called in sick, but they said I would work too…"

"He seems very accustomed to it, and he looks even better than we'd expected—"

"Shut up! Feliciano, just take the picture and we'll leave."

"But I called Romano and Antonio already, and they'll meet us here!"

Ludwig nodded slowly. "Oh…is that so—wait a minute!" His brows furrow together in confusion. "Called them? Through what?"

"My cell phone, ve…"

"It works here?" He took his own phone out, quickly tapping on it. "It works! We can call England!"

The scout tapped Feliciano on the back nervously. The Italian smiled and turned to him, greatly embarrassing the other man. "Yes?"

It was uncanny, a man in a dress should _not_ look this good. "Who…who are Romano and Antonio, if don't mind me asking?"

Feliciano laughed. "Oh, that's my brother and his husband—er…I mean, friend."

"You have a brother?" _Another model! _"And he is coming here?"

"Sure, ve! Ah…why are you looking at me like that?"

The scout shook his head. "Oh, was I staring? I'm sorry." He beamed. "Now then, step right here and we'll begin!"

* * *

_November 30, present, park, 5:12 P.M…_

Annelise clapped her hands and beamed to herself. "You look so pretty in that dress," she gushed. "Next we can pull your hair up and—"

Yukiko waved her away and continued to stare at the playground listlessly. "Thanks, but no thanks."

The other girl settled down on the bench, her smile evaporating. "You are…you are still worried about Mr. Kirkland and the others?"

"No. I'm sure he'll get along fine."

"Is it Alec?"

"No…" She exhaled. "Even though that may be cause for some worry, Alec isn't here right now, so that girl can't do anything too drastic."

"Then what's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"Okay…if you don't want to tell me, I'll go play with Eirik—"

"Wait!" Yukiko bit her lip. "I sort of…I sort of miss my dad. We were supposed to go back to Japan and we'd celebrate my birthday with him. It's selfish, I know, we have bigger problems right now…but it's just that he didn't answer my calls today, so maybe he forgot…"

"Don't be ridiculous." Annelise relaxed and reclined against the back of the bench. "It's not selfish. Want to tell me more? You might feel better."

"Dad and I were supposed to go shopping for cake ingrediants, and then I'll teach him Japanese because he always tries so hard, and we'll go to a café and eat more cakes!"

Annelise nodded in agreement, but her nose was feeling sort of itchy. "That's great. What else?"

A little kitten sauntered under the park bench and sat down right in front of the girl, making her wrinkle her nose again. Another cat came from out of nowhere and rubbed its head on Eirik's knee, purring contently; the boy hardly looked up from his book.

She grinned as she began remembering. "And then dad and I will make our own cakes and we'll invite Aunt Mei and Yao and Im Yong Soo because he always makes things more fun. And Mom wanted to invite Mr. Sadiq, too, but I don't know what Dad might do…"

"I'll punch his lights out before he even sets foot in my house," said an amused voice from behind. "And then I'll light him up and turn him into fireworks so you and your mom can watch him go up."

And Yukiko slowly looked up, her eyes and smile widening instantly. "Daddy!"


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: FINALLY. I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR SUCH A LONG TIME I THOUGHT MY ERASER WAS GONNA TURN TO STONE. oTL||| FFnet didn't let me post a chapter for Hetalia (FFnet, I now declare you ridiculous and you should go sit in the Chair of Shame). Some error message kept popping up.**

**BUT.**

**I stalked the forums and found a way to post (I think). Although I am not sure if you will get the New Chapter notices soon, since FFnet is still wacked up and aren't sending them out on time. ****Thank _you _for waiting so patiently and for all your reviews/favs/alerts!**

**Sp/grammatical errors and DM linked words will be corrected after publication.**

**Notes: -**Well, this is a surprise. **h t t p :/ ctd- ptp- fanclub. deviant art. com/ **Post your stuff here! XD Thank you, **dustbunniehailey, **for starting this!  
-**.com/#/d3bpisg** by **iheartnargles**, featuring the CTD/PTP crew! I adore this; the style, the Adr/Ale cuteness (FFF—*explodes*) at the top, Aloisa's t-shirt (HEHEHEHEH), the soda buddies in the middle, and Mikhail sitting there like a boss. No words left to describe the adorableness of it all. Thank you so much! =^^=  
-Here's what I imagined Lovino's dress to look like: **h t t p :/www. leeyoung / images/ dresses/LY%20winter%20dress %20k1002361%20Blue3. jpg  
****-**In numerous cases the time frame jumps around because each scene is continuing from where it left off in the previous chapter, so watch out.  
-**h t t p:/ alexrocksdude. deviantart .com/ #/ d3c0cos** by **alexrocksdude**!It's the CTD/PTP girls! They look so cute! -squee- I love how energetic Aloisa isand Felicita's dress and how epic Evangeline looks! Mm...I'm jealous of people who can shade like that with markers. ;;  
-btw Francis doesn't know it's a phone. But we do. ;] I guess I should change it, eh?

**News**: -I'm currently working on the **Inception crossover**. Please excuse the grammar if I suddenly switch to present tense, 'cause I wrote the Inception crossover in present tense.  
-I think I'll name the **Kate and Leopold crossover** as **Arthur and Alfred**. Might start on that once Inception is finished, I'm not sure.

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

_November 30, 1960, airport, Manhattan, New York, 3:10 P.M…_

America was not in the best of moods. First of all, he had completely missed his flight yesterday because of a certain Russian monster that was apparently 'too busy' to make it. To top it off, he had to let said monster sleep in his house, because the man refused to stay in a hotel for whatever crazy reason he mentioned. America could swallow that, no problem, but what he couldn't take was the way Russia never stopped watching his every move.

"I'm not going to whip out a gun in the middle of the airport, dumbass," he muttered irritably, keeping a safe distance from Russia.

"I know, товарищ," he said.

Their tickets to Paris (the lady at the counter was quite shocked to see them, indicating that the boys and their counterparts had certainly been here) were safely inside America's coat pocket. He had wondered if he could dump Russia's in a trash can when he wasn't looking, but ha, fat chance of that happening now. "Then stop _looking_ at me, commie."

He continued beaming. "Is there a law that says I cannot?"

America's eye twitched. "There will be if you don't stop it." He took a burger out of his jacket (picked up from a diner earlier on) and took a huge bite. "Ugh…this tastes weird. Knew I should've gone to Clara's—wha…_what are you doing, commie_?"

The blond nearly dropped his burger in alarm when Russia pushed him to a sparsely populated corner and against a wall. When Russia suddenly pressed his mouth on America's, he did let go of the burger this time, his eyes widening and instantly forcing Russia back.

"_What the hell was that, bastard_?"

Russia smacked his lips, sticking out his tongue in disgust. "You are right. The sandwich does taste strange. But then again, all American foods taste strange."

_The commie kissed me, the commie kissed me, I'm going to get radiation poisoning and start sprouting tentacles—_no, _calm down, Al! _"You did that—_for a damn burger_?"

"Since we are working together in this case, I should be wary of my partner's actions and behavior. That involves checking for food poisoning."

America chucked the burger in a trash can (a thing that he would normally never ever ever ever _ever_ do) and hacked violently, trying to get the taste of cigarettes out of his mouth. "_Food poisoning_? Back up, back up, we are _not_ partners. I just happened to get stuck with you. Understand? And—" America unraveled the scarf (_Dammit, why did I wear it today_?) and stuffed it at Russia's chest. "You can have this back!"

Russia cocked his head and smiled. "You may keep it, Alfred."

"Do _not_ call me that!"

"Why not?"

"We not on friendly enough terms for you to be allowed to refer to me—"

Russia blinked, counting childishly on his fingers. "I gave you my scarf, and I kissed you. Does that not count as a peace offering in your country?"

"Huh? What the hell are you talking abou—"

"I read it in a book I found in Gilbert's room."

America's face reddened, remembering the rumors that he'd heard from Francis about Germany's unsuccessful proposal to Italy on Valentine's Day. "T-that's a dating advice manual, you big lug!"

"Oh." Russia looked up, his lips curved upwards innocently. "Is that not the same thing?"

"_No_!"

"But the book said, '_If your partner is American_'—"

"I'm going to the gate now!"

Russia shrugged and followed the fuming blond. _What a troublesome person_, he thought.

* * *

_November 30, 1960, restaurant, Paris, France, 8:14 P.M…_

Mikhail looked up from his soup, staring at his mom warily. "What's wrong?"

Alfred, still in Allie form (Ivan only wished to know why) had been smacking his lips relentlessly. "I taste…cigarettes."

Ivan furrowed his eyebrows. "Cigarettes?"

"Yeah," Alfred answered hesitantly. "You don't smoke anymore, do you?"

"…no." _Once or twice a month…that counts as a 'no'._

"Hmm." He slid his plate of salad away and downed some water. "A minute ago I got this funny aftertaste in my mouth. Like, bad burgers and cigarettes. Oh well."

On the other hand, Adrian recalled how he used to be proud when Alfred came over for Open House in elementary school, because he was certain that he had the prettiest mom. But right now, Alfred was practically glowing, and he could feel all the patron's eyes on their table. Usually Adrian didn't care, but in this restaurant there happened to be some idiots who dared to approach Alfred knowing that Ivan was sitting right next to him. When another stranger got up and made his way towards Alfred with a bundle of roses, Adrian excused himself and went to the restroom.

His brother might've found Ivan clobbering civilians funny, but he didn't.

* * *

_November 30, 1960, studio, Manhattan, 1:32 P.M…_

Ludwig snapped his cell phone shut; he had just gotten off the phone with Arthur, who said that they would meet them in Munich, where Aloisa and Felicita were. He had been unable to reach Alfred or Evangeline, but either way, he told Ludwig that he had to go to Strasbourg first.

"Feliciano, it's time to go—what are you doing?"

The Italian was in another dress, straightening the hems of his skirt and adjusting his hat. "I have one more shoot to go, ve."

A shout exploded from the dressing room: "_There is no way in hell I am going to wear that, asshole_—"

Ludwig sighed. "Tell your brother and Spain to come out. We need to go to Munich."

"Why Munich?"

"England found Aloisa and Felicita. And Gilbert…" _Goddammit, why did my bruder have to come along?_

Feliciano froze. Then he took a step back and dashed into the dressing room, pulling Lovino (who the scout had forced into a winter dress) out by the arm. "_Fratello_, we found Felicita and Aloisa!"

Lovino's eyes widened when he heard this, but he wasn't about to leave before slapping the scout. "You deserved that, bastard!"

"Lovi, you should put on your regular clothes—"

He grabbed a hat from the clothing rack and examined it. Dammit. Of all the hats he could've picked, he got a woman's sun hat. It didn't matter, at least it'd cover his face. "No time. Get me a coat. Potato, we're leaving!"

Ludwig wrapped a dark overcoat around Feliciano's shoulders and guided him out. "R-right."

The scout raised one hand, the other one nursing his wounded cheek. "Wait! Those clothes belong to the studio!"

Lovino responded with a very ungentlemanly (or should it be unladylike?) gesture and turned on his heels, grabbing Antonio by the ear and stamping in his boots. "Stop staring at me! It's as cold as fuck outside—"

His Lovi was so cute. "Would you like me to warm you up, Lovi?"

"Do you want me to rip off your arm?"

At least the scout got twenty decent pictures of Feliciano (at the cost of a couple hundred dollar articles of designer clothing).

* * *

_November 30, 1960, Strasbourg, France, France's house, 10:46 A.M…_

France didn't wake up until nine, but he stayed in his room, remembering the dream with Arthur and Evan and wondering why he thought of them. There was something off about that Evan girl, something that she was keeping from him. He dragged himself out of bed, realizing that someone had changed his bandages. He frowned; must be Evan, but what reason did she have for doing so?

He walked to the guest bedroom, where he thought the girl was. "Evan?" he called.

The room was empty. He was going to go downstairs when a flash on the floor caught his eye. It was a small, rectangular object lying face down. France bent over and picked it up, examining the screen and giving a small start when it blinked to life, displaying the words, "_Two missed calls_."

The Frenchman touched the screen and the message box disappeared, to his surprise. The screen was instantly replaced with a colored picture of Evan with a boy that looked almost identical to him, but with England's eyebrows. Fiddling with the phone, France accidently accessed the album, opening an entire file of pictures and videos. There were two boys throwing snowballs at each other, one with silver hair and the other blond, as if they were younger versions of Russia and America. Another was a picture of a blond girl in a ponytail stirring something in a bowl. The bottom of the picture had a triangular symbol, and France brushed his finger over it, his hand shaking.

He nearly dropped the phone when the picture began moving, a girl's shout emitting from the device. "_Evangeline, are you taking pictures?" _the blond girl asked.

Evan's voice crackled out; France could hear the smile in her voice. "_A video. Wouldn't want to miss this."_

The other girl scoffed. "_If this cake catches on fire and ruins the kitchen, my mom will faint."_

"_Why don't you ask your dad to help you?"_

"_Because," _the blond replied, _"he's busy."_

"_How about your uncle?"_

She stared at Evan, or rather, Francis, incredulously. Her eyes were blue, as clear as a lake. _Like Germany's_, he realized. _"_Onkel_ Gilbert? Do you want the kitchen to explode—"_

And he heard Prussia's cackling laugh, the picture switching views and focusing on Prussia himself, who was striding into the kitchen. "_I heard my name_—" But the video paused there, and Prussia's smirking face beamed at him in amusement.

"Did you have a good sleep, Mr. Bonnefoy?" said a voice from behind.

France fumbled with the phone and stuck it in his shirt pocket, squinting at the clock and trying to act nonchalant. "I had the strangest dream…" he told Evangeline.

She smiled. "Really now? Must be interesting. Breakfast is downstairs—"

A million questions were threatening to burst out of his throat: _Who was the blond girl? Why was Prussia in the picture? What is this device anyways? What is your real name? _But he managed to ask only one. "Who are you?"

Her mouth fell into a bewildered expression. "What do you mean?"

"Who are you?" he repeated.

"I'm Evan," she answered. "Evan Brown. I've told you before."

_Not Evangeline? _he thought, but it didn't look like he was going to get any more information out of her. He exhales. "Would you like to come with me to the Christmas market? Perhaps we might even see your brother."

She grinned, the light returning to her face. Her dad must be feeling better to ask something like this, she thought. "That'd be great."

France wondered if she had forgotten about her brother, or if she'd just made him up as an excuse. Maybe he was delirious. Maybe he was still dreaming. This sharp-tongued girl that resembled _Angleterre_ so greatly…what a curious coincidence. Bringing her to the Christmas market might lower her guard, and there he might be able to find out her real identity.

Evan's device, whatever it was...well, he would keep for further examination.

* * *

_November 30, 1960, Munich, West Germany, Germany's house, dining room, 7:08 P.M…_

Italy tapped Aloisa's back, whispering into her ear anxiously. "What are you doing?"

"Making pancakes."

"But…" He threw a look at Germany, who regarded Gilbert with a strange expression. Gilbert was oblivious, chatting with Felicita in the living room and laughing loudly. "But why?"

"Because Gilbert wanted to eat some." She flipped the pancake over, a smooth, brown circle. She guessed that Germany was too shocked to stop her from taking over the kitchen.

Italy put a hand on his lips, glancing at Gilbert worriedly. "What happened to Gilbert?"

"He's fine, far as I can tell."

Gilbert decided to shout out at that moment, nearly making Germany jump. "I want maple syrup on my pancakes!"

"That's what I mean, Aloisa. He's back to normal. The last time we saw him he wasn't himself, and that was a day or two ago—"

Aloisa gripped the spatula tighter and ignored her uncle. "Well then, you should be glad, right?"

"Aloisa! Maple syrup!" Gilbert waved his arms like a little kid in an attempt to catch Aloisa's attention; Germany raised an eyebrow, stupefied.

Italy pressed on. "And I've been wondering how he knows you girls so well. He seems to be so familiar with you. Y-you don't know him, do you?"

"'Course not." _Do not turn around, do not look at Onkel Gilbert. _

"Maple! Syrup! Like the ones Matthew has. I think I brought some back—"

Aloisa forced a smile at Italy. "I hardly know him. He's always like this, isn't he?" If she let him sprout any more nonsense they'd be in deep trouble. She only had to hold the fort until Arthur came, just a few more hours, at the most a day…

"He _used_ to. He hasn't been like this for years—"

Then the man actually started belting out the words to a stupid little tune. "Pancakes! Pancakes! Are they done yet—"

There had to be a limit to how obnoxious a person could be. She whipped around and snapped at him, "_Why don't I make your face into a pancake, huh? How would you like that, Onkel Gilbert?_" She stopped, remembering that Germany was watching her. "Uh…we call people Onkel in my family a lot. Yeah…i-it's a common term." She glared at Felicita, who shrugged helplessly. Aloisa wondered how Matthew could stand this guy, much less date him.

Germany rose from his seat, beckoning Italy to follow him. "I need to talk to you, Feliciano…" He was going to do it right this time, he was not going to fumble and mess up like on Valentine's Day, so many years ago...

Italy flinched. "I just remembered something. Aloisa, I'll be right back." He grabbed his jacket and raced out the door, into the snow glazed streets.

Gilbert snickered until Aloisa threw a pancake at his face in panic as an attempt to shut him up. "Tough luck, West—_agh—hot, hot, hot_!"

The blond dashed after Italy, almost slipping and crashing face first. "Italy!"

It was as if an ill wind had blown him away, there was no one outside, and no reply. A gust of wind blew a flurry of snow that burnt Germany's face as they hit him. But he saw the footprints in the accumulated snow, marks from boots that belonged to someone who was running away, the prints becoming fainter and smaller as the owner increased their pace.

He followed the trail, determined to bring Italy back. At the rate the snow was falling, it was only a matter of minutes before Italy got lost.

* * *

_December 1, 1960, England's house, London, England, 8:16 A.M…_

England almost scared himself to death when he woke up in his office, the fact that he'd dozed off and left Alec alone in his own house hitting him like a ton of bricks. He'd been pondering about the flowers and Francis's reasons for sending them for so long that he'd fallen asleep on his desk. And Alfred. He thought about him too. What was he going to tell the American? That the reason he'd been unable to call him was because he didn't want to? Had he fallen out of love with Alfred just because of the roses? Or was it due to Francis himself?

When he got home, his heart skipped a beat when he discovered that the door was not locked; the first thing he saw was Charles sprawled on his couch and snoring with his shirt half buttoned up. He shook his assistant awake and noticed an opened envelope on the table. "Charles. Charles!"

He groggily opened one eye. "Huh?" Then he saw England's face, and his eyes immediately cracked open. "Mr. Kirkland! I don't know…must've drifted off…what time is it?"

"It's eight in the morning. On Thursday." England looked around, realizing that the house was silent. "Where's Alec?"

"_Thursday_?" Charles jumped up, shrugging on his jacket. "I'm sorry, Mr. Kirkland, I have to go, I'm really late, I promised my wife _yesterday_—oh, dear God…"

"But where did Alec go?"

"Oh, I'm not sure, Mr. Bonnefoy came over and took him away, that's all I recall. I might've been dreaming though…"

"Francis?" England snatched the letter on the table and scanned it; it was another invitation to the Christmas market from the Frenchman sent from Strasbourg. Stuffing the letter into his coat pocket, he shot another question at Charles, "Where did he take him?"

"You were with him, Mr. Kirkland—no, I apologize, I must've been dreaming—"

"I was not _anywhere_ near that frog." He grabbed Charles's arm, forbidding him to leave. "Just tell me, Charles."

"I-I don't know, I can't remember—"

"Charles! What am I going to do with you?"

He racked his brain, trying his best to remember, but the events after he had reached Alec were blurred. "I think I heard Strasbourg—"

"Strasbourg!" England exclaimed, his hand going to his coat pocket instinctively. "Whatever for?"

But his assistant had already dashed out the door, muttering a hasty good-bye as he rushed by. England knew he was in trouble—Alec had become his responsibility for the time being; it was time to pay Francis Bonnefoy a visit. He took one last look at the roses and scrawled out a quick note before stepping out again, his head spinning with worry and confusion.

After all, anything involving Francis was bound to end badly.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Thank you all for reading and being so kind. :] Sp/grammatical errors and DM linked words will be fixed after publication. Btw, if you haven't gotten a reply to your review, I truly apologize. FFnet is still being wacky and not sending me emails on time.**

**Notes: -**Also, why do I see Spain and Romano dancing in this video**: h t t p :/ www. youtube. com/ watch?v= pHSx1YnB9vM&feature=related. **And Gilbert (because he's awesome, but probably can't dance to save his life, like me) and Feliciano here: **h t t p :/ www. youtube. com/ watch?v= VYsWfcntEw8&feature=related **I almost wrote a sidestory based on this, but scrapped it because…eh…  
-About doujinshi…there will be a delay, probably to summer. I apologize! But here's this sample/practice doujin page I snatched from Jyro's account - **h t t p:/ ctd-ptp -fanclub. deviantart. com/#/d3ccftf **She's really busy with school and whatnot (hehe, me too, I'm just dumb enough to keep working on this), so go cheer her on!  
-I'm going to try to not get into the mpreg too much, but here's hormonal!Alfred because a reviewer mentioned that. (I'm sorry, I made Alfred sort of strange. oTL|||) Oh, and another reviewer wanted more parents fluffy moments. I…I tried. ;A; Fluff without getting too cheesy is hard. Crack is easier to write, lol.  
-Airlines in the 1960s, so you can understand: **h t t p :/ mysite .verizon .net/vze6l53f/ what flying was like inthe1960s/ **Gourmet airplane food and good services actually existed.

Edit: omgod, i didnt notice i published the unedited version of chapter 14 until now. pft.

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

_December 1, 1960, hotel suite, London, England, 7:16 A.M…_

The first thing America thought of when he woke up was how warm the bed was. Yesterday night he had finally succeeded in forcing Russia to sleep on the hotel couch, but the bed really wasn't much better. The sheets were starchy and stiff and cold, sort of like England when he was pissed. It was better than nothing; after all, he was a hero, and heroes didn't crash in the living room. But America slept fitfully, waking up every hour or so to make sure that the Russian maniac wasn't standing over him with a faucet pipe.

The lady from the airport back in New York had approached Russia and America just as they reached the gate, anxiously proclaiming that she'd just discovered the seats on the flight to Paris were all taken, and she'd made a mistake. Russia might not have cared, for whatever strange reason, but that meant that they'd have to stop at London instead before hopping onto another flight to Paris. Unfortunately, the blond could still remember the flight, which seemed like the _longest damn flight in the world_, with Russia at his side and beaming that infuriatingly annoying smile. It was even worse than a naked France chasing him around the town.

Okay. Maybe not as bad as that, but it was close.

But most of all America recalled the moment when he woke up on the plane, the fact that he'd fallen asleep on Braginski's shoulder hitting him like a ton of lead. It was absolutely humiliating, because Russia could've mutilated him or something him while he was knocked out.

The alarm clock apparently said that it was seven in the morning, or something close to that, since he couldn't really tell without his glasses. He woke with a face full of what he thought were blankets, which wasn't a reason to panic, so he wrapped his arms and leg around the bundle and closed his eyes. But then the blankets started squirming, and America rolled back in shock and tumbled down onto the carpet.

For a second, the words lodged in his throat. It couldn't be Russia, that wasn't possible. Why would _he_ have any reason to share his bed, anyways?

America was hoping he'd imagined the bed sheets moving on its own, that he was delusional because he barely got any sleep last night, but then came the terrible moment when Russia's head poked out of the covers, muttering indistinctively. The blond suppressed a girlish shriek (again, heroes didn't scream, that was Italy's job) and snatched the alarm clock, holding it above his head like he was going to chuck it. But Russia's eyes remained shut, the blankets rising and falling in an even pattern.

There was no way he was ever going to go back to sleep on that bed. He was frozen on his spot for about two minutes, watching Russia warily, for he was unsure of what to do. He was tiptoeing around the room and headed for the living room when Russia started to smile slowly, his eyes still closed.

America thought he would collapse right there from shock. He bit his lip, a small squeaky noise emitting from his throat; apparently, Russia was just dreaming. Who knew what the hell he was dreaming about?

Despite being quite threatening even when unconscious, America couldn't help but notice how _normal_ (he couldn't believe he was thinking this) the man appeared. Russia almost looked like a regular human male, at the most twenty-five, like someone he would want to talk to…

No. Russia was Russia, and nothing could ever change that. This was all an unlucky accident, him getting paired up with Braginski. But he was in London now, he could see Iggy and ask him if he'd seen Adrian and Michael…now that he thought about it, he hadn't seen Arthur in a long time. He wondered if that was why he felt more distant to him. He wondered if Russia was the reason that he didn't mind.

That was when the room started spinning. America rushed into the bathroom, and the next thing he knew he was bent over the sink, as if he was sick. Nothing came out after five minutes, but he remained in that position, his eyes wide with anxiety. He was certain he didn't drink last night. Had he eaten something bad on the plane? or was it from the hotel restaurant? Or maybe—

"America?"

He looked up at Russia, who was leaning on the doorframe. America rinsed his mouth, spitting the water out distastefully. "What do you want?"

"Are you feeling sick, perhaps?"

America gaped at him, suddenly very cautious. "Did you—"

"No, America. If you are indeed sick, I promise you I had nothing to do with it." He smirked, adding, "Maybe it is from eating that trash you call hamburgers."

He scowled, pushing the man aside to retrieve his glasses. "It's none of your business, Braginski."

"I am not joking," Russia said patiently. "American food is—_ow_!"

The blond snickered. "What's the matter, commie? Your stomach hurting? That's what you get for dissing good American food—"

For once, Russia seemed too bewildered to reply with a witty comeback; instead, he raised his hand and laid his palm on his forehead, where a piercing sting had struck for reasons unknown. "My head hurts," he said stiffly, his mouth curving into an awful smile. "Did you just throw something at me, America?"

America didn't know how to answer that; the question didn't make much sense. "If I did then you would've seen me, right?" he slowly said. Personally, he'd prefer to throw an entire truck on Russia, but he assumed that even then the man would probably still be alive if he did.

Russia was silent. He turned and walked away, his hand rubbing the center of his forehead. America huffed and stared out the window, gazing at London's ice-glazed streets. He didn't care what happened to Russia, he told himself. The man might as well jump off a cliff.

But if he believed that so fiercely (or so he thought), then why was he still uneasy?

* * *

_December 1, 1960, hotel room, Paris, France, 8:17 A.M…  
_  
Ivan nearly scared himself silly when he opened the bathroom door and found a bedraggled Alfred leaning over the sink, his shirt disheveled and hair in disarray. He also learned that even when Alfred was posing as Allie, he could still manage to look like a hobo if he wanted to.

"Alfred…?"

The American raised his head, glaring. Nantucket almost looked like it was bent out of shape (Ivan hoped he imagined that). "What?"

Ivan was sure that Alfred had been fine yesterday night (maybe even more than fine, judging by the number of random guys approaching him at dinner), so why was he acting up now? "Are you feeling alright?"

The answer was brief and uncharacteristically icy. "I feel like shit." He rinsed his mouth, smacking his lips as he grimaced at his own reflection. "My mouth tastes like shit."

The Russian pressed his hand to Alfred's forehead, his brows creased in apprehension. "You do not have a fever…"

He grasped Ivan's hand immediately and lowered it to his cheek, sighing tiredly. "Your hands are cool." He didn't speak for a few seconds after that, but then his eyes opened and the glowering resumed. "I want to eat breakfast."

"Do you want sa—"

"I don't want salad. I hate salad."

Ivan blinked, confused. "But yesterday you said—"

The blond flicked Ivan's forehead, the sudden pain stunning him. "I know what I said," Alfred snapped. "I want scones. Like the ones Iggy makes. And ice cream."

That was definitely unexpected. "You want to eat _England's _scones—?" He paused, noticing that Alfred's hands were balling up into fists, as if he was going to throw a punch. "I will see if they have any."

Ivan spun on his heels, making a break for it in case Alfred decided to fling the glass cup at his head, but the blond stopped him by wrapping his arms around his shoulders, burying his face into the taller man's back.

"Hey," he murmured softly, the venom gone from his voice. "Thanks."

He allowed Alfred to stay there for as long as he wanted, although his mind was racing, pondering the reasons and possibilities regarding Alfred's behavior. He had this feeling that the answer was obvious, and that he was being an idiot by not being able to recall it, but truthfully, most of his concentration was set on wondering where he was going to find burnt scones without England's help and remembering the directions to the ice cream parlor.

He also had a feeling that if he screwed this up, Alfred would lock himself in the bathroom and never come out.

* * *

_November 30, 1960, airport, Manhattan, 1:50 P.M…_

Ludwig had managed to successfully lead the group to the airport in one piece (more or less), and he was especially glad that he actually had enough money for the ride (Lovino screamed at him for using modern money, but he felt that this was an emergency). But now he was met with a problem.

He had ten dollars left in his wallet; with the inflation during this time period, ten dollars weren't even enough to fly domestic. Suddenly, seventy-five dollars seemed like a gold mine. He was certain he had at least four hundred emergency cash tucked in his shirt pocket, and now Ludwig wondered if the cabbie had swiped his money when he was distracted by Lovino or something (although that seemed like a ridiculous notion).

The brunette clasped his hand around Ludwig's, swinging his arm slightly and oblivious to the jealous travelers shooting dirty looks at Ludwig. Feliciano and Lovino were probably the only female-figures in the midst of these overly-well dressed businessmen. Feliciano piped up, "Ludwig, do you remember what happened when you were Holy Roman Empire?"

"Why do you ask?"

He shrugged, as if it didn't matter. "That coat you're wearing, the one you took from the studio, reminds me of him. Or you." Feliciano broke out in a peal of laughter, and the crowd's fixated stare on the blond intensified even further. "I'm not sure anymore. Just wondering."

"Not much." Ludwig brushed Feliciano's bangs back idly. "I remember you."

That earned him a pleased smile. "Ve, Ludwig, I don't think big brother France knows."

"Let's keep it that way."

"Okay," Feliciano said, letting his head rest on Ludwig's shoulder. Then he blinked, as if startled. "Ludwig, that man keeps staring at us."

"Who?"

"That tall person over there, with the briefcase."

"Ignore him," he replied, his eyes trained on the line to the ticket counter. If he hadn't seen the sign on the building, he would've thought the place to be some rundown bus station. Why was he even standing in line? He didn't have enough cash…should he bribe the agent? No, that wouldn't be right and would certainly cause a commotion…

"You better not have been saying weird stuff to my brother, Potato." Lovino crossed his arms and tapped his feet, making a clack-clack on the marble floor. "This is taking forever. Can't you make the line go faster?"

Ludwig raised an eyebrow. "No," he said flatly.

Lovino grinded his teeth in frustration. "Listen, Potato, we've been waiting for half an hour. I want to find my kid and get the hell away from here, because my feet are going to break if I do not get out of these damn heels."

"I can carry you, Lovi! I don't mind at all!"

"Then let Spain carry you," he muttered back mindlessly.

He regretted that a millisecond later, when Lovino instantly burst out in anger, "Why don't you try and stand in heels, asshole? I'd like to see _you_ try—"

Ludwig whipped around, panicked and very much aware of the other travelers eyeing them in astonishment. "Romano, I didn't mean that, but _please be quiet_ for now—"

"Don't tell me what to do—dammit, what _is_ it, Veneziano?"

"That man over there is still looking at us…"

"So? It's probably some lonely basement creeper who can't get laid, just ignore him..." Lovino turned away carelessly, his arms folded, indicating a sign of increasing impatience.

"But…" he continued, tightening his grip on Ludwig's arm, "but he's headed our way, ve."

That caught Ludwig's attention. "What?"

The businessman looked as though he was squinting at them; once he got close enough, he took off his hat and exclaimed in astonishment, "_Mein Gott_, it's Mr. Beilschmidt. What are you doing here?" He glanced at Feliciano. "And who is this?"

The blond was at a loss for words. "I-I'm sorry, but I don't—"

The man laughed, thinking Ludwig to be joking. "I almost didn't recognize you with your hair down, sir. It's just as well, I was going to call to tell you that Mr. Jones could not be here for the scheduled meeting…actually, they don't know where he is at the moment—" He tapped his lips, smiling. "I've taken care of the other items on the agenda, though. But really, I was not expecting you to show up. Have you just arrived, Mr. Beilschmidt?"

He got it. This guy used to be his assistant, Klaus Wern-something-or-the-other, he couldn't quite recall. "Uh, no…I'm actually on my way to Munich." Wait a minute, that was it! The assistant could help him! "Mister, er, Werner—"

"Walther," the man corrected, but he waved it away quickly. "You want to go to Munich? To be honest, sir, I don't think it was such a wise idea for you to leave West Germany without giving word. But I can accompany you back if you wish."

"That would be great. Let's go, Feliciano."

His assistant stopped walking and cocked his head, astounded. "Feliciano? As in Feliciano Vargas?"

Oh, shit. Was he not supposed to mention that? "N-no…? I meant—" He cleared his throat, noticing that Feliciano hadn't spoken, but was watching him with careful eyes, waiting for his husband to speak his mind. "I meant to say 'Feliciana'. She's my…my close acquaintance."

The man blinked and gestured to Lovino, who was busy untangling himself from Antonio's embrace and swearing in Italian. "What about them?"

"That's Feliciana's sister, Lovina, and her husband. We just happened to see them here…random coincidence, like this one…"

He prayed that Walther wouldn't pursue the matter further, and he was rewarded with a shrug as his assistant patted his hat back on his head, recovering from his initial shock. "I see," he said, nodding. "That makes sense. It's only that they reminded me of the representatives from the world meeting. Especially Miss Feliciana. She's even got Mr. Vargas's curl." His voice lowered to a hush as he leaned towards Ludwig. "I thought you weren't on very good terms with Mr. Feliciano Vargas, sir."

"I'm…not?"

Walther's whisper had only been meant for Ludwig, but the blond understood perfectly well that Feliciano had heard it, for the Italian was digging his nails harder into his arm. "I had imagined so. You demanded last week that all contact with him to be put on hold unless it is a political emergency."

"Oh." He could see Feliciano's lips quivering out of the corner of his eyes, and he had to gulp down the guilt building up.

"Frankly, sir, you haven't been interacting with anyone save for your brother. Speaking of your brother, you wanted me to request a meeting with him, but I was unable to reach Mr. Braginski to confirm that." He gave a small smile to Feliciano, whose face was as blank as a slate of marble. "I sincerely apologize for intruding so suddenly, Miss Feliciana."

"It's okay," he answered, relinquishing his hold on Ludwig. He beamed at Walther cheerfully, but Ludwig could tell that he was faking it. "You didn't interrupt anything."

Walther nodded, somewhat disturbed by the uncanny similarities between this person and Feliciano Vargas. "I see. Well then, I might have to steal Mr. Beilschmidt for a few minutes, will that be alright?"

"Of course."

"Feliciano—I mean—"

His assistant forced a grin at Ludwig, but his eyes were livid. He led Ludwig away to the ticket counter roughly, where he slid a small plastic card to the agent. "Please _never_ do that again, sir," he hissed, his polite demeanor melting away. "I'll bet that the whole office is looking for you right now, it's a wonder they haven't called me yet. We can't have runaway countries while the economy is still healing; I must say that this is a very poor time to make an escapade with your girlfriend. How come you've never mentioned Miss Feliciana?"

Ludwig threw an anxious glance at the others while Walther collected their tickets. He'd upset Feliciano, but he couldn't console him if Walther stuck with them. "I believe that is none of your concern," he retorted sharply.

"I'm afraid it is, sir," Walther replied, as if he was used to such behavior from Ludwig. "Everyone at the office understands that this is a difficult time for you, but you need to step out now. If Miss Feliciana is the reason that your health is improving, then I am glad. She isn't a nation, is she?"

"…no."

There was a lull in their empty argument, and the assistant sighed. "I don't think I can get any more out of you, sir, although you seem to be faring better." He pursed his lips, turning his head to look at Feliciano more carefully. "Am I overstepping my boundaries to ask the reason of why you are bringing Miss Feliciana to Munich?" he finally asked.

Ludwig considered this; for a frightening moment, he had difficulties conjuring the image of his daughter. "We are searching for someone very important to us."

"Sir?"

"Yes?"

"Does this have anything to do with Feliciano Vargas?"

He didn't know how to answer that without letting slip too much information. "_That_ is none of your concern," Ludwig repeated blandly.

To his surprise and relief, Walther didn't question him. "Very well, sir."

* * *

_November 30, 1960, street, Munich, West Germany, 7:50 P.M…  
_  
Italy wondered if something was wrong with him; he'd been meaning to talk with Germany like they'd done before the war, and when the chance presented itself he ran. He couldn't even tell where he was. The snow had accumulated rather fast, and Italy had only the lights from the Christmas market to guide him.

"_W-well, I did have a first love…"_

"_So you did, that's—"_

"_It…was another boy though. I'm sorry!"_

At the end of the street, somewhere around the edge of the market, was a small flower stall manned by an old lady reclining in a rickety chair. Italy hadn't intended to stop, but a bouquet of roses caught his eye.

_"I didn't know if you'd like it, but I got some…"_

"_Flowers?"_

"_I-it's mentioned in those Greek myths you liked, so that's why I picked it."_

"_Um…thanks, Germany. But Germany giving me flowers…does that mean…?"_ _  
_

That seemed like a lifetime ago. Italy handed the old lady some coins and picked out a single carnation, its scarlet petals delicately preserved and made brittle by the frost. The children in the park were chasing each other towards the market, trying to catch snowflakes on their tongues. But in the dark and cold they were little more than shadows and blurs, and every time Italy saw them he remembered the little boy who'd promised him that he'd return safely, and that he'd love him no matter how many years go by.

"Feliciano!"

A hand grabbed Italy's shoulder from behind, and the frozen carnation slipped from his fingers as easily as running water. His breath hitched in his throat, his mind too paralyzed with fear to look back immediately. The man tried again, his voice altered by the noise of the wind. "Feli!"

"Germany?" He stood there, dazed. "You're not wearing a jacket."

"I know that." The blond swallowed nervously. "I was looking for you."

Italy puffed out a small cloud of mist, surprised. "T-thank you, Germany."

He waited for the man to scold him for running out in this weather, but Germany looked uncomfortable, his cheeks red from either the breeze or embarrassment. "I wanted to ask you if…"

"Yes?"

Dammit, this was harder than the manuals said it would be. "Do you want to…"

"…Ludwig, are you okay?"

"I'm fine!" He'd referred to him by his human name! The blond took Italy's hands, the sudden motion startling him. This time, however, he looked more confident, the awkwardness slowly melting away. "W-would you like to go to the—"

That was when his voice faded away, and Italy only saw Germany's lips moving soundlessly. At first he thought he was daydreaming, but when the man remained mute for another minute, Italy's heartbeat quickened. "Ve…I'm sorry, Ludwig, I didn't catch that—"

Germany tried again, but it was as though his voice had been erased. Instead, all Italy could hear was someone that seemed to be speaking from miles away, a voice that sounded like _his_ voice…

"_Ludwig, do you remember what happened when you were Holy Roman Empire?"_

"_Why do you ask?" _

"_That coat you're wearing, the one you took from the studio, reminds me of him. Or you. I'm not sure anymore. Just wondering."_

"_Not much. I remember you."_

Alarmed, Italy snatched back his hands hastily, and in that instant, the sounds flooded to life and he could hear Germany's agitated voice repeating his name. "—Feliciano! Feli!"

Italy blinked, shaking away his thoughts. "I-I'm sorry. Did you—did you hear that?"

Germany stared at him with a strange expression. "Hear what?"

Was he going insane? "I guess I was imagining it, ve. What did you want to say?"

The blush returned instantly. "I asked if you wanted to go to the Christmas market with—" He coughed, flustered. "—w-with me tomorrow."

The Italian remained silent for quite a while, and Germany was afraid that he'd ruined the whole thing until Italy broke out in laughter, wiping tears from his eyes. "I wasn't expecting Ludwig to ask me that. I-I mean, I'm happy that you did, but…"

…_but I'm still waiting for him…_

Italy glanced at his carnation, covered with new snow and nearly concealed: a droplet of blood in a sea of white. Holy Roman Empire no longer existed, it didn't matter how many years he waited, the little boy in the cape would never return.

Finally, Italy raised his head and beamed at Germany, a real, meaningful smile. "I'd be glad to."

* * *

_November 30, 1960, Munich, West Germany, Germany's house, 7:45 P.M…_

"What's that in your pocket, Onkel?"

"I don't have anything in my pocket."

"Yeah, you do," Felicita pointed at Gilbert's back pocket. "You've got something in your butt pocket."

He reached behind and stared at the crumpled wad of American dollars, realization dawning on him. "Oh, yeah. I borrowed these from West."

"You mean you took it without asking."

"Same thing."

"Vati's going to kill you."

"Not if he doesn't find out," Gilbert replied, opening the pantry cabinets and digging for food. "What's this?"

"Italy's present for Germany, don't eat that. And what makes you think I'm not going to tell Vati?"

"You're referring to them by their country names? Aw, your Mutti will cry when he hears that."

"They're not my parents yet," Aloisa said stubbornly, leaning her head on her hand. "They wouldn't care."

"They've got plenty of other things to worry about right now. Hey…what if I bought us all plane tickets and leave Munich on our own? That way we wouldn't have to deal with this—"

"Evangeline's mom will pick us up. You're going to screw up the whole thing."

"I was awesomely improvising, Aloisa. They totally believed me. How about we spend the money in the Christmas market?"

"They don't take American dollars."

"Then can—"

"No, you can't keep it, either."

"You got to loosen up, seriously." Gilbert peered inside the microwave oven, raising an eyebrow. "Is this supposed to be a microwave?"

"Aren't you supposed to know?"

"I've lived a long time. I forget shit."

It was difficult to remember that even Gilbert used to be a nation (why he is still here now, Aloisa had yet to question), as annoying as he was. "How long?"

Gilbert stuck his coffee mug inside, shrugging to himself; it probably worked the same way as a regular microwave. "How long what? How long until my coffee's done?"

"_No_, you idiot. How old are you?"

"Human years? Maybe a little over twenty…maybe I stopped aging. That's pretty awesome—"

"Country years."

"Can't remember," he answered bluntly.

"Are you kidding me?"

"No. Okay, Teutonic Knights were in the thirteenth century, so that means…forget it, you can look it up on your own." Gilbert ripped open Italy's gift and started munching on the cookies, ignoring Aloisa's protests. "Why, did my awesomeness convert you—"

"Of course not," she said, snatching the box away. "Then how old is Vati?"

"I don't know, twenty?"

"But you said you're twenty."

"I said '_over twenty'_," he stressed, irritated.

"Then how does nation aging work?"

"Depends on their economy. The bigger it is, the more mature they become."

"…so, did yours, like, suck or something?"

"Hell no—oh, _shit_, what was that?"

A splitting crack erupted from inside the microwave oven, followed by a hissing noise like air escaping a balloon. They heard Felicita calling from the living room, asking what was wrong.

"Nothing!" Aloisa gestured at the oven, startled. "Smoke's coming out, Onkel Gilbert…"

That was when Gilbert decided that it would be a nice time to open the oven door for all to gape at the dripping mess of coffee and fire. "Oh, shit," he repeated.

Aloisa leaped from her seat, suppressing a hysterical screech. "Where's the fire extinguisher?"

Gilbert opened the nearest kitchen compartment and tossed Aloisa a rusty canister. "Here it is!"

She ogled at it in incredulity. "This is an air horn."

"It's a retro fire extinguisher, just spray it!" Well, now that she mentioned it, it did look sort of like an air horn…

"_How do I use it?_"

"Just press that—_dammit_, not at me—"

"Are you two okay—" Felicita poked her head out of the corner, her smile frozen as she watched the two fight each other for the fire extinguisher while the oven fire grew bigger behind them. "The kitchen—"

That was also when the front door opened, the snow and wind blowing Italy and Germany indoors. Gilbert currently had the canister held high above his head, and Aloisa was grappling his face to grab it.

Germany didn't know whether to scream or to slap himself to check if he was delirious. "_Bruder_…?"

Gilbert blinked, realizing that Germany had been standing there for quite some time. He and Aloisa stared at them for a few seconds before Gilbert, still stuck in that position, squeezed the lever of the fire extinguisher and the flames slowly died down.

"…welcome home, West."

* * *

_November 30, 1960, Christmas market, Strasbourg, France, 3:26 P.M…_

"You should see the marketplace at night, Evan…it's quite beautiful."

Evangeline nodded, letting her heels glide over the iced sidewalk. "I know. I've been to Christmas markets before."

So she was willing to talk now, France guessed. "So you have, huh?" He thought about this, pointing out curiosities displayed in various stalls. "Who did you come with? Your boyfriend, perhaps?"

That sparked a furious blush. "No. Came with my brother and parents. We went to a different one, though."

"About your father…is his eye color red?"

The girl paused, glancing at him suspiciously. "No," she said, after a long moment of hesitation. "Do your friends have red eyes?"

Maybe he'd been too abrupt with that question. "Yes, actually," he admitted. "His name is Gilbert, but I haven't seen him since the war."

Her expression relaxed visibly. "I'm sorry to hear that."

France chuckled. "But I'm sure he is fine wherever he is."

"You are so right," she muttered to herself.

"Pardon?"

"N-nothing!" Evangeline wondered if France was pelting her with questions on purpose. "Can I ask something, Mr. Bonnefoy?"

"Of course, _ma cherie_."

"About that person you invited to the Christmas market…" She sensed that she'd hit a nerve when the corner of France's mouth twitched. "How would you like it if h—_she_, visited you?"

"That again, Evan? I haven't talked to her in years—"

"I'm just saying, maybe she's afraid to like you _because _she thought you left her. If you see her around, you should explain to her."

His smile curled into a bemused grin. "Wouldn't that make me look even worse, me proclaiming my love for her when she's already with Jones?"

Evangeline shrugged. "You've got nothing to lose."

"I have some dignity."

"Might as well use it up before you regret it."

And she strode away to a nearby teddy bear stall, letting France ponder that over.

* * *

_November 30, present, park, 7:13 P.M…_

"It's late, why aren't they home yet?"

"Maybe they got kidnapped—_ow_, I was kidding, Norge! They're probably still at the playground—"

"Ha ha. You're not coming in the house until you see the kids."

That was how Denmark ended up climbing to the roof, waiting and watching for three figures to show up while collecting weird stuff he found littered in corners. So far, he'd discovered: a dead rose, a basketball, a broken teacup, and plenty of tattered cookbooks (he had no idea how that last one got up to the roof in the first place).

In ten minutes or so, Denmark was snoring on the roof of England's house with an opened cookbook lying on his face.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Thank you for the favs/reviews/alerts! I apologize for the slow update; this time it was totally my fault. I procrastinated until I realized there's a test coming up in school and that it's already over two weeks. :|**

**Fudge it. Sp/grammatical errors will be fixed after publication. **

**Notes:**-Sekaiichi Hatsukoi. Two episodes and an OVA are out. This anime made me think Adr/Ale as some shoujo manga pairing in their "maiden's heart-throb panel," where "everything gets so white and randomly sparkly" and "the hair and clothing flow even though there's no wind." (phrases taken directly from the episode) I. Can. Absolutely. See. That. oTL|||  
-By the way, sorry guys, I had a brain fart and posted the unedited version of Chapter 14 and didn't notice until two weeks later (lol). Edited one explains why America and Russia are in England right now. And I am having trouble remembering where each scene left off. Fudge.  
-PTP is almost finished. But my brain imploded again and I somehow came up with a new idea that may develop into a final continuation story…hm.  
-Overlapping of senses works when both parties are having some kind of contact with each other at the same time.  
-This chapter is absurd. Do not question the strangeness. :)

**Update on the location and status of characters (country names used for 1960 nations, human names used for present nations):  
**-**1960 America and Russia**: they were delayed, and instead of a flight to Paris they had to make a pit stop in London. Currently at an airport in London, heading for Strasbourg after reading England's note.  
-**present Alfred and Ivan**: on the train to Strasbourg with their sons and Natalia, looking for 1960!England to help them back to their own time. They do not know the other present!nations are in 1960 yet. Also, Alfred has something to tell his family.  
-**1960 Germany and Italy**: at Germany's house in Munich, recently made up (?) with Germany's invitation to the Christmas market on Dec. 1, Gilbert and Aloisa and Felicita are in Munich currently, waiting for Arthur, who they've contacted via cell phone.  
-**present Ludwig and Feliciano**: on the way to Munich with Germany's ex-secretary Klaus Walther and Antonio and Lovino. The Italy brothers are mistaken as girls, and Feliciano as a human and Germany's girlfriend.  
-**1960 France and England**: France is cruising the Christmas market in Strasbourg with Evangeline, and England is making his way to Strasbourg.  
-**present France and England**: at airport in London, headed for Strasbourg with Alec for Evangeline.  
-**Arthur's house, present**: Heracles has arrived for Yukiko's birthday (12/2).  
-**James Chase**: supposedly in Strasbourg.  
-**Melanie Beaumont**: ? ?

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

_November 30, 1960, Christmas market, Strasbourg, France, 5:43 P.M…_

Evangeline was swinging her legs idly as she waited on the park bench near the market. France returned, bearing two steaming paper cups, one of which he passed to the girl. "It's tea."

She accepted it, but did not drink it. The cup warmed her hands, and the scent of cinnamon apples reminded her of her mother. "Thank you."

"You don't like it?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"It's okay."

France plucked her cup out of her hands and replaced it with his own. "Coffee, then?"

"Sorry," she muttered, taking a small sip.

"No matter," he replied, looking at her curiously. "I assumed incorrectly."

They went on for a couple minutes in silence, gazing at nothing in particular, until Evangeline said, "My brother likes tea."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah." She shrugged, panicking for a moment when she had to struggle to remember what he looked like. Her memory was becoming fainter; she wondered if she'd completely forget in due time. "He doesn't like coffee that much."

France mulled this over, tapping the side of his cup. "I know someone like that."

Evangeline nodded absentmindedly, having difficulty conjuring up the image of her friends for a split second. "Adrian brings him to Starbu—erm, a café, when they go out." She smacked her lips, her mouth tasting of coffee beans. "Adrian likes coffee," she said, a pointless little addition.

"Is _Adrien_ your brother?"

She laughed. "Oh, no. He's my brother's boyf—" Evangeline stopped and finished lamely, "Adrian is his friend." She'd gotten used to Adrian stopping by her house a long time ago, that was the reason for her slip.

"I don't think I've ever asked about your parents, Evan."

"No," she answered slowly. "I don't believe so."

"And we have been looking for them for quite a while. Do you think we should repor—"

"_No_!"

France regarded her with a strange look, and Evangeline bit her lip and sat back down. She had been too forceful. Her only hope lay with the 1960 England, but now that she thought about it, what if England never responded? What was she to do then? "I'm sure they're around here," she added in a small voice.

"What do your parents look like?" France said finally. Evangeline guessed that he had misinterpreted her worry as childish fear. "We've covered nearly half of the town. If they are still here as you say, we may be able to locate them by tomorrow at the latest."

That was just enough time for England to arrive, if all went well. "My parents…well, my mother is from England. My dad's from France."

That surely caught his attention. "Really? What do they look like?"

"Uh…they're blond. And my mother has green eyes." Not good, not good, France was hanging onto her every word. "My dad has shoulder-length wavy-ish hair—"

He leaned back, chuckling, although his tone was sarcastic. "Are you sure you're not describing me, Evan?"

"No! My dad—he has a beard. A-and he wears glasses." A total lie. "And he's really…really…muscular." Blatant lie, she wanted to hit herself for even coming up with the last one. "I'm not making this up! Stop laughing, Mr. Bonnefoy! What is so funny?"

France smiled benignly at the girl's fuming face. "I'm sorry, Evan. You only sound like someone I know." Then his eyes narrowed when something flashed on Evangeline's wrist. "What is that?"

She had accidently leaned the watch's side button on the bench, and the face of the clock glowed green through her shirtsleeve which had been concealing it so carefully. "Light from the market," she said, shoving her hand into her pocket. "A reflection of some sort."

But France had gotten quite a clear view of it—a wristwatch, he assumed, although where the face should've been was a small plastic square with numbers that lighted up and darkened. His hand hovered over his pocket, on Evan's…whatever it was that he took. He was tempted take it out and return it to her to observe her reaction, but Evan's sudden reclusiveness baffled him.

"This might seem a bit strange, Evan…" He set his cup down, tired of apple cinnamon, tired of tea, and tired of remembering Arthur. "Would you happen to know who Arthur Kirkland is?"

He did not expect Evangeline to tense up and avert her eyes. "No, I don't," she said after a slight pause. "Is he your friend?"

"Well..." France pursed his lips, thoughtful. "Who knows."

* * *

_November 30, 1960, flight from New York to Munich, 3:54 P.M…_

Walther had gotten up to use the airplane restroom in the back, allowing Ludwig to turn back to his Miss Feliciana, who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, since he'd never seen her before (Feliciano Vargas was the last person he knew who used to accompany the man). There was also something a little different about Ludwig, too, but he couldn't quite place it. Walther was about to step out when he heard an angry hiss just outside the restroom door,

"…and you're okay with this? The potato even got his little secretary person to join us. I can't even change back to my own clothes now."

"It's only a little while, Lovi."

He could recognized the voices anywhere—Lovino Vargas and Antonio Carriedo, representatives from Italy and Spain. He'd always seen them together and had heard Mr. Vargas argue throughout the duration of the meetings whenever he went along with Mr. Beilschmidt to these disastrous meetings. But why would they be here right now, of all places…?

The response was imminent and angry. "You're not the one wearing women's clothing, are you? I bet you're enjoying this, bastard."

"I think you look really cute in it—"

"Screw that. I didn't ask for your opinion—wait. What are you looking at?"

"Nothing, Lovi."

"_Dammit_, are you looking up my skirt—"

Walther pressed his ear against the door to make out the muffled bickering. The most he was able to make out were the names "Aloisa" and "Felicita", and a few swear words planted here and there. When he slipped out of the restroom, he was rather shocked to find Miss Lovina and her husband talking outside, instead of the personifications of South Italy and Spain as he'd thought.

He wondered if those three glasses of wine he had an hour ago was making him hear things.

* * *

_November 30, 1960, kitchen, Germany's house, Munich, West Germany, 10:54 P.M…_

"The coffee's really burned into the oven, Germany…"

"Just leave it there," he said, scrubbing the counter where Gilbert had dripped a small trail of coffee. This was a question he wanted to ask the world, but probably won't get a satisfactory answer anyways: why was he cleaning up the kitchen for his brother? "Can you bring me a new towel?"

Maybe it was because he was too nice. Or because he'd let Gilbert and the girls sneak upstairs when he was still stunned and neutralized. Or because he had just succeeded in inviting Italy in one of the most embarrassing moments save for the Valentine's Day fiasco.

Or, as dangerous as it was, Gilbert exploding microwaves and being careless was familiar. To him, at least.

"In here?" Italy asked from the next room, sounding uncertain.

_He's still hesitant_, Germany thought. "Storage, I suppose…" he answered.

Italy rummaged through the closet until he pulled out a dishrag. Among the detergent and soap were three boxes (either unmarked or labeled "From Finland") sitting at the top, two packs of beer (Gilbert's, he guessed), and a bunch of brooms lying on the side. His arm accidently brushed against the handle of a mop as he was turning away, and a whole army of cleaning supplies sailed on him.

He heard Germany call from the kitchen, and he hurriedly pushed the bottles back and cleared away the mess into the closet. One of the boxes had landed by his side, spilling out an entire array of yellowed paper—most were only folded in half, while about five were in ragged envelopes, sealed with wax. A small, bound booklet laid face-down next to him, dusty with age and neglect.

"Feliciano! Are you alright?"

The brunette picked up one of the letters, trying to decipher the blotched handwriting. "I-I'll be right there!"

He shouldn't read Germany's stuff, he knew it wasn't right , but he was almost positive that it was his name that was written on it, in scrawled out Latin. He couldn't hear Germany's footsteps, it must be okay to check just one…

"Feliciano!"

Panicked, Italy threw the rest of the letters back into the box and pocketed the booklet. He found it difficult to put on a smiling face for Germany as he dashed back, for he had realized that all the letters were address to him, and each one every one bore the same harried signature—_Imperium Romanum Sacrum_.

* * *

_November 30, 1960, upstairs, Germany's house, Munich, West Germany, 10:54 P.M…_

"Why did you have to set things on fire?" Aloisa buried her face in the pillow, groaning. "Why are you so dumb sometimes?"

"I think you mean, why am I so _awesome_!"

"Don't push it."

"Sorry."

Felicita seemed very interested in checking out the room, but she had to wonder why there were so many cuckoo clocks stacked in the drawers. There were plenty of picture albums in there too, all neatly piled, one on top of the other. "Your parents look pretty happy," she noted. The back of the photo was labeled _1937, Venice_. "Yukiko's mom is in here, too."

A fluffy, yellow chick poked its head out of Gilbert's shirt pocket and fluttered up onto Felicita's head, making itself comfortable in her hair. "You brought Gilbird along?" Aloisa asked, surprised.

"I thought I sent him back home with Pierre." He sighed. "Since you're being all unawesome and pissy, how about we call your parents?"

She looked up instantly. "You can do that?"

"I don't know, maybe." Gilbert poked at the screen on his phone and thrust it at her. "Here."

* * *

_November 30, 1960, flight from New York to Munich, 4:00 P.M…_

Ludwig scared himself and the other passengers when his pocket started to ring loudly, a tune he soon recognized as his cell phone ringtone. Feliciano woke up from his siesta momentarily and lifted his head from Ludwig's shoulder, rubbing his eyes. "What was that?"

The blond fished his phone out quickly, stared at the caller ID, and answered, "Hello?"

"_Vati_…?"

He grasped the phone; the seat next to him was empty. Walther had not yet returned from his bathroom expedition, and he could hear the sharp snaps of Lovino from there. "Aloisa?"

There was a crackle, and he was afraid the connection was lost, but her voice came through again. "_It's me, Vati_."

Feliciano blinked, disoriented. "Who are you talking to?"

"_Is that mom?"_

Ludwig nodded, forgetting that she couldn't possibly see him. "It is," he added, dazed. "A-are you okay? Is Felicita alright?"

A slight pause. _"We're okay. We're in your house right now, actually. And Onkel Gilbert just destroyed your oven."_ She chuckles a bit, and Ludwig thought he had never been gladder to hear her laugh.

"We're coming to pick you up right now. Felicita's parents are also with us. We'll be right there…" He stuttered, not sure on how to make the situation lighter for the girls.

"_It's okay, Va_—" Then her voice got cut off and was replaced with Gilbert's cackling. "West! _What took you so long? Were you having fun with Feli—_"

"_Dammit, Onkel! Give me back the phone—"_

And then he heard the phone crackle again and something that resembled a furious little bird chirping.

* * *

_November 30, 1960, upstairs, Germany's house, Munich, West Germany, 11:02 P.M…_

Felicita had to lunge for the phone as it came sailing out of Gilbert's hands. She pressed her ear against it and rambled on, "Hello, Mr. Beilschmidt!"

"_Felicita—?"_

She grinned nervously, remembering the first time she'd met Aloisa's dad, and how he'd practically stared her down like she was a practice target. "Uh, yeah, it's me. Aloisa and Gilbert are currently…um…they're yelling at each other right now, so maybe we'll call you back."

"_Do you want to talk to your parents—?"_

The girl was about to say yes, but then a memory flashed by and she recalled that her mother, either provoked or emotional, would make a ruckus and he'd most likely scream or cry into the phone and then fuss to her dad, denying that he'd ever done such a thing. "You guys are on a plane, right?"

"_Yes_…"

That was even worse. Lovino would probably wake up the entire cabin. "That'd be great, and don't get me wrong, I really, really want to, but I don't think I should." She kept an eye on the other two, who hadn't noticed that they no longer possessed the phone but were continuing their bickering, before continuing, "We'll call you back when Aloisa's not so angry. Bye!"

"_Wait_—"

Fortunately, Germany couldn't hear them from downstairs. He strolled towards the storage, wondering what was taking Italy so long. "Feliciano! Are you alright?"

* * *

_December 1, 1960, in train compartment to Strasbourg, France, 12:17 P.M…_

"I think I'm having another kid."

Alfred had said this once Natalia left their compartment for the restroom, as lightly as if he were commenting on the weather. Ivan had choked on his coffee, and coughed even more when Alfred slapped his back with his usual force (which could've equaled the strength of a rhino). Mikhail and Adrian gaped, astounded.

The first thing Mikhail did was to prattle on in Russia partly to his dad and partly to himself, looking pretty excited and happy. Adrian leaned back on his seat, his mouth twitching into a smile. "Nice going, Dad."

When Ivan had somewhat recovered, he managed to ask, "Are you sure, Alfred?"

The American nodded. "I'm stuck as Allie. I couldn't change back this morning."

"H-how long…?" That definitely explained everything.

"How long it's been? Around three months, give or take a day. I think it was from that time when Mikhail went to Aloisa's house and Adrian was out on his date—"

"Ew, Mom. No more."

"Okay, okay. Just saying. Geez, you guys are just like Iggy."

_Holy cow_— "That is wonderful, Al—"

Alfred, beaming for the first time since this morning, wrapped his arms around Ivan's shoulders. Mikhail and Adrian, who were used to such affections between his parents, went back to whatever they were doing before. "I know, right? Can't wait to see the look on Iggy's face when I tell him." Then the blond hesitated, his expression darkening as he turned to the boys. "But let's not tell Natalia—"

The compartment door slammed open and Natalia plopped onto her seat next to Mikhail, who immediately tensed. She stared straight at her brother, her lips curved in a frightening smirk. "Are you alright, Big Brother? I hope that was not you I heard coughing."

Alfred furrowed his eyebrows. "I hope that's red paint I see on your hands, Belarus."

She didn't bat an eye. "The line was too long." Natalia folded her hands underneath her apron and grinned at Ivan. "Well, Big Brother—?"

Adrian stepped in, meaning to save his dad from his aunt with a timely interruption. "Guess what, Aunt Natalia? My mom's going to have another kid!"

If he hadn't known why his parents were shaking their heads like mad, he totally understood now. Her reaction was almost amusing if Adrian hadn't been aware of how dangerous Natalia could be—her face froze in the beginning, then her smile dropped and her face morphed into a terrible grimace. Mikhail had to throw his entire weight on her before she leaped on Alfred, screeching even shriller than Felicita's insane ex-babysitter.

The disaster ended when Ivan, of all people, successfully chucked a burnt scone at Natalia's head and actually knocked her out (although there came an awkward moment when Alfred retrieved the scone later on and ate it). And by the looks his parents were giving him, Adrian had a feeling that he was going to be grounded for the first time in the whole of his high school years.

* * *

_December 1, 1960, airport, London, England, 11:17 A.M…_

America shrugged off Russia's restraining hand, which had mysteriously made its way to the blond's shoulder. "Don't stick so close to me, idiot."

"I would not want you to faint again like you did in the hotel—"

"Go to hell, Braginski. I collapsed from fatigue because I'm traveling with _you_."

"And you got that bruise on your head, too…"

"Don't touch it! It was an accident!" _Dammit, how annoying can a person get?_

"Yes, an accident only a dimwit would make."

The blond whipped around and gave him the finger, earning him gasps from a couple of old ladies walking by. They'd been to England's house earlier in the morning, but all they found was a note taped on the wall—_To Charles – Gone to Strasbourg. _Oh well, at least he had Russia with him—

No! It was _worse_ having Russia with him, how in the world did he even come up with that conclusion? It was already bad enough chasing two imposters overseas, but going after them with this abominable snow beast…life could not get any worse.

Russia, oblivious to all, grabbed America's hand and led him towards their gate, smiling foolishly. "I know where to go. Follow me."

America was about to scream bloody murder and grind his heel into the man's toes when he heard the rumbling of an engine as Russia clasped his hands around his. Russia did not appear to hear it, the blond could now recognize the noise—it was from a train.

But there weren't any train stations anywhere near here.

At the same time, a voice sounding warbled but still articulate, rang in his ears: _"When are we going to reach Strasbourg?"_

It was that boy, Adrian, no doubt about it; he was nowhere in sight, however. Another tone answered, _"A couple of hours, I supp…"_

It faded away when America wrenched his hand from Russia's metal-like grip. He blinked, agitated when he realized he'd lost Adrian somehow. He didn't know if he was crazy and just hearing things, but there was something familiar about the voice of the one who'd replied to Adrian, a voice that sounded awfully like his own…

"Alfred…why are you looking at me like that?"

It must be because of Russia; whatever voodoo he was doing must be causing him to hear Adrian. He didn't believe in magic, he would never believe in those weird rituals England used to do, but this was for the sake of rescuing the boys. He was a hero, and heroes sacrificed themselves for justice. If having contact with the commie would help him hear in some way, he would do it.

"Why are you bringing me to the restroom, Alfr—woah!"

He had to do this, he wanted to slap himself silly for even assuming that this would work, but he had to try. "You will _never_ tell anyone about this, or I swear I will gut you, you hear?"

Violet eyes gazed innocently at him, confused. "Tell what—?"

America cut him off by clamping his palms on the man's cheeks, effectively cutting him off and making him pucker his lips in a comical fashion. "W't t' he' 'r y'u d'ing—"

And the blond pressed his mouth on Russia's before he could change his mind; Russia's eyes widened but he didn't resist, and America wasn't sure if he was supposed to be digusted about that or glad. Intitially, he had this silly assumption that kissing Russia would be like kissing a fish, cold and dead, but…

The roaring of the train returned instantly and his own voice, although sounding a bit higher pitched than usual, announced, "_I think I'm having another kid_."

Wait.

Wait, _what_?

Adrian's bemused voice followed, "_Nice going, Dad."_

"_Are you sure, Alfred_?" He could place that accent from a mile away, even as distorted as it was. But Russia was right here with him, pressed against a wall and, as far as America could tell, he wasn't talking. America let out a small moan, then had to stifle himself before he slipped again. He did _not_ just make that sound. He didn't know if Russia understood what was going on by now, because America could feel Russia's arms wrapping around his waist.

"_I'm stuck as Allie. I couldn't change back this morning_."

"_H-how long…?_"

"_How long it's been? Around three months, give or take a day. I think it was from that time when Mikhail went to Aloisa's house and Adrian was out on his date_—"

"_Ew, Mom. No more."_

"_Okay, okay. Just saying. Geez, you guys are just like Iggy."  
_

"_That is wonderful, Al—"_

America heard his own laugh echoing. "_I know, right? Can't wait to see the look on Iggy's face when I tell him_. _But let's not tell Natalia_—"

The blond pushed away and wiped his mouth roughly on his sleeve, both men panting for air. His face burned and he glowered as menacingly as he could, his eyes flashing behind spectacles. "Did you hear that?"

Russia exhaled, still in a state of shock. "Yes…I did, actually."

It was hard to look at Russia after that. He had never done anything so stupid, so insanely idiotic, as this. "We're going to Strasbourg. Those people are headed there." He frowned, trying to look more pissed than embarrassed. "Just so you know, I, as the _hero_, of course, only did that so I could hear them." And what a strange conversation that was, too. Must've been a code of some sort, because none of it made any sense, especially the part where his counterpart claimed that he was having another kid.

America walked a few steps towards the ticket counter when he noticed Russia wasn't tailing after him like usual (shit, he'd gotten too used to him…) "What are you waiting for, commie?"

The awkwardness had apparently melted away, for Russia reached out for America's wrist. "I have a question, Alfred."

"Didn't I tell you to—" He sighed, exasperated. "What do you want?"

He grinned slyly. "Did you like it?"

The blond stiffened, the heat flushing back onto his face. "Like hell I did, bastard!"

Because there was no way in hell he would ever admit it aloud.

* * *

_December 1, 1960, Christmas market, Strasbourg, France, 4:26 P.M…_

This was the second time that Evangeline had requested to visit the market; France didn't mind. He found that he enjoyed her company, surprisingly. She spoke with a similar air to Arthur, snappily and just a bit proudly, and knew plenty of French and English literature for some reason. She loved to talk about her brother and mother, although he noticed that her father was less mentioned compared to the other two. Nevertheless, on the whole she was pleasant, and unwittingly she had cheered him up a great deal.

"I've been thinking about what you've said the day before, Evan," he mused.

"Really?" At this point, Evangeline was wondering what she had said to him, and whether if it was appropriate or not.

"How peculiar," he murmured to himself before turning to the girl. "I had a dream…and you were in it."

She laughed, uncertain. "That doesn't sound weird at all, Da—uh, Mr. Bonnefoy."

He was silent for a moment, wallowing in his thoughts, but he refocused quickly and smiled at her. "Where do you want to go next?"

"Let's stay around the Christmas market for now. I don't think my parents would be far from here."

If England decided to pay France a visit, he would probably arrive before nightfall. The commotion of the marketplace distracted her, and Evangeline was able to stop worrying for long enough to believe that she was in France as a tourist, and that it was her dad, not France, who was chatting and laughing with her.

* * *

_December 1, 1960, Christmas market, Strasbourg, France, 7:31 P.M…_

Two flights and a train ride later, Alec had finally made it to Strasbourg. He was miles away from London, therefore miles away from James Chase, and he was eternally grateful for that. Arthur insisted that he stick with them, lest he got lost again; even so, they'd been wandering around the market for ages without a sign of Evangeline. There were too many people, and snow was falling in delicate white blurs. If the weather got any worse, they'd be stuck in this city until it let up.

After an hour of fruitless searching, Alec took note that his parents seemed very fascinated with 1960, almost as if they were reliving memories. His dad was busy pointing things out to Arthur, who pretended to be irritated but was probably secretly pleased that Francis was flirting with him while showing him around.

The three walked around for a few minutes, and Francis had already managed to buy an armload of trinkets with modern money (to Arthur's extreme disapproval, but later only huffed in annoyance when Francis presented him with a unicorn plushie).

"This reminded me of you, _Angleterre_~"

Francis knew what he was doing; the offering obviously satisfied the Brit. "…git."

This cycle went on for another half hour until Alec spotted, by some miraculous chance, his sister in the crowd, walking with an unknown man. They were yards away and going in the opposite direction, but he reckoned if he sprinted he would get there fast enough.

Arthur spun around, alarmed. "Where are you going, Alec? Alec!"

He didn't stop to respond; he couldn't lose Evangeline now, not when he was this close. Alec slid through the sea of people and turned a sharp corner, where he could see Evangeline sitting on a nearby bench with the 1960 France; it was rather unsettling to Alec how dull and weary this France looked. He could holler Evangeline's name, and then maybe she'd turn around—

"_Alec_? Alec, is that you?"

Alec felt someone grip his wrist, and for a mere second he believed that it was Adrian. The bustling of the market distorted the voice enough for him to assume so, but when his captor spoke again, he knew that it was definitely not Adrian.

"Alec, I didn't know you'd be in France!"

The speaker sounded genuinely glad to see him, apparently, but that accent identified him as the number one person Alec did not want to see ever, or at least not _now_. Alec turned his head around fearfully to make sure that it _was_ him, and the next thing he knew he was being pushed behind a stall, his mouth colliding with James Chase's as James's arms snaked around him, the noise from the marketplace drowning out his gasp.

* * *

_November 30, present, England's house, 9:18 P.M…_

Norway was completely prepared to snap off Denmark's legs when he did not enter the house after two hours. Heracles had brought the kids home, along with a cake and presents from several other nations, and greeted Kiku (who wandered around the house, still appearing quite flustered) with a kiss on the lips in the process. They'd also gotten a lot of phone calls, first from Berwald and Tino, who'd heard about the incident from Feliks, who heard it from Toris, who heard it from Yao, who heard it from Mei, who heard it from Sadiq who, for whatever unknown reason, heard it from Heracles. Supposedly these nations had promised to visit, although Yukiko wasn't entirely sure that they should be accepting visitors in a house that wasn't theirs.

Norway found Denmark soon when he happened to look up at the sky and see the man's leg sticking out from the rooftop. He'd gotten a ladder and climbed up, removing the cookbook on Denmark's face and staring distastefully at him.

For a second he looked like he was about to smother Denmark or roll him off the house, but Norway's expression softened a fraction of a degree, and Denmark was spared for the day. Inside the house, Annelise tuned out of whatever Eirik was saying to shoot a sideways glance at the covered mirror frame. She thought she'd seen it shudder.

Her mother called from the front yard: "Anne, will you help me wake your Dad?"

Annelise slid down the couch and headed outdoors, quickly shaking her mind off the mirror. "Okay."


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Thank you all for your support and 300+ reviews! ;A; Sp/grammatical errors will be corrected after publication.**

**Notes: **-**h t t p :/ peppaminty. deviant art. com/#/ d3eich4 **It's a doodle by dear **peppaminty**! Featuring the CTD/PTP kids, GerIta, Spamano and Angelina who, frighteningly enough, is quite accurate. Everybody looks great (especially the parents, how I love the parents~)! And lol, Aloisa's shirt. XD  
-By the way, **peppaminty** is also drawing out the **PTP doujinshi**! (CTD doujinshi will be out when Jyro has time to work on it.) Please look forward to that! Also, there are some more fanarts in the CTD/PTP website, so I want to thank everyone who posted and for your support!  
**-h t t p :/ letyter. deviant / gallery/#/ d3ej4ne **by **Rennasakura! **It's Aloisa and Felicita! They look lovely, and I do adore their uniforms! Thanks a bunch!  
-Lol, Hanna cameo. For people who forgot, she's SuFin's daughter. And Alfred does owe Mikhail twenty dollars, mentioned in Chapter 4.  
-Warning: this chapter and most likely the next will be very much insane and nauseatingly cheesy (I apologize, I butcher fluff and gnaw on its bones) like this. I hope it's not getting too confusing (trolololol).  
-Official character notes state that England is, in face, a romanticist inside, and I find that darling; and from elegentmess I learned that the notes also say France is actually quite pessimistic. Nice to find a little humanness in them, isn't it?  
-Truthfully, James Chase wasn't meant to be a creeper, but he kind of evolved that way, lol.

Идиот (Russian) – idiot

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

_December 1, present, England's house, 8:43 P.M…_

The house had become a mess faster than Gilbert could drink beer. In the last three hours, the nations who had phoned arrived one by one, and the nations who _hadn't_ phoned seemed to be tagging along as well. Currently, Berwald and Tino were putting up decorations, Hanna was chasing Hanatamago around the house, and Heracles, who looked more alive than Yukiko had ever seen him, was engaged in a heated argument with Sadiq, which Kiku was trying to break up. The Baltic nations, especially Toris, sounded worried (more like terrified) when they confirmed with Yukiko that Russia was, indeed, in 1960. They had stalked off to a corner, fearing the worst for their past selves, while Feliks pulled Toris off to the side and started to ramble on at machine-gun speed.

Katyusha had burst into tears once she saw Yukiko (no surprise there) but had recovered quick enough to join Mei in the kitchen. Elizaveta appeared most disappointed about the disappearance of the teens, particularly Aloisa, but she was in a good enough mood once Yukiko informed her that Gilbert had also gotten lost.

"Really now? That should teach the dimwit something. What? Oh, no, not England." She placed her hands on her camera and surveyed the house. "What a lovely home you have!"

"It's not my house, Miss Hungary."

She snapped a picture. "It's not? Oh, well. Whose is it then?"

"It's England and France—"

Her eyes lit up instantly, suppressing a tiny squeal. "_Really_? You don't think they'll mind if we poke around upstairs for a bit? We might even find something _interesting_."

Elizaveta's smile was a frightening thing to see. "I don't think—"

She was momentarily saved when a soccer ball sailed inside through an open window from the front yard and knocked over a vase. Iceland cracked an amused smirk when Norway immediately slammed his palm on the table, his expression darkening. "_Danmark_!"

"Sorry!" He sprinted in, Annelise laughing behind him. "Daddy will get it—_ack_!"

Tino grinned helplessly, wondering how Denmark stayed alive living with such a dangerous character, as Norway grasped Denmark's tie, hissing in Norwegian. "_One more move like that and I chop off your head. Do you understand me_?"

He might not completely understand the language, but he could guess. "Definitely. I get it, Norge, l-let go of my tie."

Annelise's voice shouted, "Kick it back outside, Dad!"

That was enough for Denmark to forget Norway's warning. He whipped around and grinned like a fool. "Here it comes!"

Just before his feet made contact with the ball, Norway kicked it away and proceeded to smother Denmark with the man's own shirt. The soccer ball bounced off the opposite wall, knocked a painting off, and flew straight for the covered mirror in the corner.

No one was really watching where the ball went; most of them were too busy pulling Norway off his victim. Eirik happened to look up from his book to check out what his dad did this time and see the soccer ball land smack dab in the center of the fabric covering the mirror, watching burst into flames.

The cloth fell away and the old mahogany frame split into two as if cracked by lightening, right down the middle. Even Heracles and Sadiq loosened their hold on each other's shirt collars to gape at what used to be Anne Boleyn's mirror frame, their broken portal to 1960 (but obviously, when the shock wore off they began accusing the other of breaking it). Katyusha entered the room then, bearing a tray of snacks, promptly wailing something along the lines of her sister and dear Vanya being forever trapped in 1960, once she saw the mess.

"Norge…you demolished it."

That declaration only constricted his throat more, for Norway threw him an ugly look and yanked Denmark's tie one last time. But even he knew when things got out of hand, and this was one of those situations.

There was only one thing to do now.

He relinquished his strangling hold on Denmark and made his way to the cabinet, ruffling around until he pulled out a roll of duct tape. Because as far as he was concerned, duct tape fixed everything, and it hadn't failed him.

Yet.

* * *

_December 1, 1960, Christmas market, Strasbourg, France, 7:31 P.M…_

Natalia forgave Ivan for "accidently" knocking her out with a scone (she blamed it on Alfred), but of course, she would probably forgive him if he "just happened" to slice off her fingers. She still threw dirty looks at Alfred all the way through the Christmas market, especially since he was being too clingy for her tastes with _her_ big brother; but she controlled herself. After all, it wouldn't do to kill him, and it would set a bad example for her dear Adrian.

Adrian, on the other hand, wished that his Aunt Natalia didn't feel the need to grasp on to his arm like she usually did to Ivan. If she vented anymore of her bottled anger like that, he would begin to consider chewing off his arm. He couldn't go anywhere—Natalia insisted that they stayed together, and she was very convincing with that monotonous stare.

Mikhail was allowed to wander about nearby. He hadn't visited a Christmas market in ages, so in ten minutes he returned to the group with an assortment of treats. Unfortunately, Alfred snatched all three bags, and he didn't look like he wanted to give them back.

He was about to speak up when Alfred crunched down on the gingerbread man's head none too ladylike; Mikhail pursed his lips and wandered off to buy more when it hit him that his mother still owed him twenty dollars.

* * *

_December 1, 1960, behind stall, Christmas market, Strasbourg, France, 7:35 P.M…_

Alec wasn't sure if James Chase had short term or extremely selective memory, but he sure acted like he forgot that Alec had slapped him _and_ yelled at him in Trafalgar Square. "What are you, _crazy_?"

"Don't be like that, Alec—_ouch_!"

The blond clamped down on James's lip, stunning him for an instant. But there must be something wrong with James, because his hand was still attached to Alec's wrist. "I swear to God, I will _scream_ if you don't let go."

"Then answer this question for me: do you like me?"

He stared incredulously at James, one eyebrow raised as if to wonder what the hell was wrong with him,before answering, "_No_."

James was persistent, however, his voice rising. "Do you have someone right now?"

Alec didn't want to reply to that. "Let go!"

"Do you?" Then James seemed to have remembered something, for he gripped Alec's arm tighter. "Is it Adrian? From your phone?"

"Will you just—_mmph_!"

* * *

_December 1, 1960, Christmas market, Strasbourg, France, 7:37 P.M…_

The sky was overcast and cloudy, which probably meant another snowfall; the lights hanging on the stalls glowed to life and colored each stand buttery yellow. Mikhail pointed out the cookies he wanted to the lady at the table. "Thank you—"

He looked up as the woman packaged them, noticing two shadowy figures outlined on the cloth covering of the stall in the back, made more distinct by the added lights. It was sort of obvious they were kissing their tongues out; he could even hear the sounds they were making. "Ew."

Mikhail tucked the paper bag in his coat pocket and spun on his heels, wondering how he was able to hear those two when the other people completely ignored them (it then occurred to him that they were in France, which answered a lot more of his other questions). He turned his back to them, and that was when he heard someone familiar screech, "What are you, _crazy_?"

"Don't be like that, Alec—_ouch_!"

"I swear to God, I will _scream_ if you don't let go."

There was no mistaking that voice. Mikhail poked his head behind the cookie stall in time to see James press his mouth on Alec's. And honestly, he had no idea what to do then. "Uh…"

Placing his hands on James's forehead, Alec managed to push him back. "Mikhail!"

James seemed to notice said Mikhail standing there like an idiot for the first time. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Is this your boyfriend?"

Alec's mouth fell open a bit, as if he couldn't exactly comprehend how James's head worked. "What? _No_, ew, that's stupid—"

"It is him, isn't it—"

There, James finally let go! The fool looked as if he was readying himself for a fight with Mikhail or something, the dumb bastard. Alec took his chance and socked James in the eye when he was distracted, surprising himself when he realized he'd actually punched him unconscious. "Oh my God." He laughed, hoping that he didn't sound as hysterical as he thought he did. "Did you see that, Mikhail? Did you see—You do _not_ know how glad I am to see you."

Mikhail blinked, his expression blank. "You know…" he said slowly, "not that I want to date you or anything, but do you find me that gross?"

He stepped over James, who'd crumpled on the ground with a rather large bruise on his face. "I-I didn't mean it, I just said it so James would leave me alone." He paused. "Oh, crap. My sister!"

"What about her—woah!"

"I wasted time, we have to bring her back! But she's with the 1960 France right now…" Alec trailed off, pondering.

Basically, at this point, Mikhail had absolutely no clue what was going on. "What do we do then?"

"My parents are waiting for me." He pursed his lips. "We'll have to be very quick…"

* * *

_December 1, 1960, park bench, Christmas market, Strasbourg, France, 7:43 P.M…_

"I believe we should start heading back, Evan, it's getting dark—"

"Just a little while longer. I-I'm sure they're here."

France sighed. "Evan, you've been saying that for the past two hours."

"But—"

"There must be something going on, else we should have sighted them days ago. I think we'll have to find them with the help of the poli—"

She shook her head, frustrated. "No, you don't understand, Mr. Bonnefoy. We _have_ to wait." She had this one chance to make sure that England did come over, but there was no way she was going to tell France that.

He rested his head on his hands, reclining on the park bench. "I know you are worried, _ma ch—"_

Evangeline stood up, glaring. "You don't get it, Dad! I'm worried for _you_!" The silence made her realize that she'd said something very, very wrong. She clapped her hands to her mouth, her eyes widening. "I mean—"

France stared at her, hesitantly getting to his feet. "You—"

* * *

_December 1, 1960, a few yards away, Christmas market, Strasbourg, France, 7:44 P.M…_

"Here's what we do—Mikhail, are you listening? Stop eating!"

He gulped down the cookie. "Mm—I am listening."

"Okay, so there is no way we can get to Evan without France noticing…"

"So?"

"_So_…we'll try a head-on approach."

"What's that?"

Alec spoke rapidly, gesturing with his hands to prove his point. "I'll tackle my dad to confuse him and you sling my sister over your shoulder and we run."

"…I am sorry, I am having difficulty comprehending the complete idiocy of that idea—"

"Oh, you want to switch roles and jump on my dad? I don't think I can carry Evan, though." Alec turned around, alert. "They're standing up. That's our cue."

"You are going to get us slaughtered, and my мама is not in the best of—"

"My God, Mikhail, you are making this too difficult."

"I merely speak the truth." He crossed his arms, dissatisfied. "And about that person you were with behind the stand…"

Alec's expression suddenly turned fierce. "James is a creepy guy who I unfortunately happened to meet in England. If you breathe a word about him to Adrian, I will tell Aloisa that you sing in the shower."

"_Wha_—I do not do that…anymore! How do you even know that?"

"Adrian tells me."

"He is lying," he insisted stubbornly, making a mental note to himself to clobber his brother, but then, "…what else does he tell you?"

Alec gave him a bored look. "You talk in your sleep about Aloisa. And you call her Mrs. Harlen."

Mikhail's voice shrank. "Oh."

* * *

_December 1, 1960, park bench, Christmas market, Strasbourg, France, 7:45 P.M…_

Evangeline laughed nervously, attempting to talk her way out of the situation. "Sorry, that was a slip of the tongue, I thought I was talking to my dad for a second…er—you know you sound like him? Kind…of…?"

France's tone was dead serious, and that was the weirdest thing she'd experienced all day. "You are not telling me something, Evan." His fingers drummed his arm impatiently. "Is that even your real name?"

She'd screwed it up this time, and she was so close, too. "I—"

And the next thing Evangeline knew her brother, crying out like a maniac, had sprung on top of France from out of nowhere; the two tumbled down to the ground, the crowd dispersing and gasping the two. "_Alec_?"

He leaped back to his feet and sprinted off, shouting at Mikhail, "Grab Evangeline!"

"Mikhail—_ah_! _What the hell are you two doing_? Let me down!"

"What in the—Evan!" France got over his initial shock and picked himself up from the dust, prepared to run after them, but a hand grabbed his sleeve from behind. "I'm sorry, I have to—_Arthur_?"

The Brit squinted at the teens weaving into the crowd, bewildered. "Is that…is that Alec?" He scruntinized France then, his mouth dropping open a bit. "Good God, Francis. You look dreadful—"

France coughed, his surprised joy melting into a scowl. "Never mind that. Who's Alec?"

"That boy, I'm sure that's him—" England blinked, genuinely confused; then his voice tightened as he tried again, "What do you have to do with Alec?"

"What are _you_ doing here? Were you not in New York with America?"

"Something came up," he said vaguely. Then he glanced to the side, flustered but trying to stay dignified. "I received your invitation when Alec disappeared, idiot. Where did he go?"

"I do not know who he is, _Angleterre_—"

"Like the roses, Francis? Do you not know about that, either?" He folded his arms, embarrassed. "I don't understand you sometimes, leaving me without a word and hiding in your house the entire day, no doubt. Y-you can go waste away in a hole for all I care!"

"What—"

"You disappeared. You didn't show up for meetings, you don't answer my calls, I thought you bloody killed yourself—"

"_Angleterre_?"

"Leaving flowers under Alfred's name, what were you thinking?"

He started to laugh to cover up how uncomfortable he was. Francis put a hand on England's shoulder, alarmed. "_Angleterr_—"

England wrung his hands, agitated. "T-this is ridiculous. I didn't fly all this way—this is not what I came here for—"

"Arthur."

He stopped and raised his head to meet France's gaze. "Don't worry people like that, git," he finally said, barely audible. "I bloody turn my back to you for a few seconds and you become this."

…"_Hey, Dad. Get better soon, okay?"_

"_Git. Don't worry us like that."…_

Wordlessly, France let his head rest on England's forehead; the latter jolted slightly, but didn't move. "_Je t'aime_, Arthur."

The blush returned full-force, along with a short outburst. "What are you playing at this time—"

France's eyes are lidded. "You are mistaken, Arthur. I'll say it as many times as it takes for you to understand._ I love you_. But you belong to America, I cannot change that."

He clutched England's hands in his own, waiting for him to wrench away and mock him. But he didn't. He murmured, after a long pause, "I don't belong to anybody."

"But I cannot have you."

England opened his hand, holding it against France's and weaving their fingers into a clasp. They stayed like that for a good two minutes, until England, speaking slowly, like he'd put a lot of thought into it, whispered, "Who says?"

His eyes open as England pressed his lips very lightly on his, a ghost of a smile gracing his features. There was hardly anyone near the park, for most had gone to the marketplace. "Don't assume things, frog—"

"_Alec_!"

The Brit pulled back, startled. "Did you hear that?" He turned around and craned his neck, looking over the sea of tourists. "Is that—that _is_ Alec!"

Twenty feet away, James had woken up and grabbed Alec's hand as they passed by, apparently shouting something. He didn't let go until Evangeline smashed her heels on his toes. "Let go of my brother!"

France smiled in relief. _So she's found her brother at last_, he thought. But he snapped back to attention once James, hopping on one foot, shouted after the three, "Alec Bonnefoy!"

Alec Bonnefoy.

Evangeline Br—no, _Bonnefoy, _that was what she was so intent on keeping to herself.

He took hold of England's hand, ignoring his flustered sputters, and led him through the crowd, frowning. "There's something going on."

* * *

_December 1, 1960, Christmas market outskirts, Strasbourg, France, 8:00 P.M…_

Alec had crashed in from behind Arthur and Francis, taking their hands and darting in the opposite direction of where he'd come. "I found Evan," he told them breathlessly. "We have to go _now_!"

"Mum!"

Arthur held back a gasp. "_Evangeline_—"

"No time to stop! We have to keep moving!"

Francis tried not to smash into passer-bys as Alec practically dragged them through the street. "Why the rush, Alec?"

The boy shook his head, "We'll explain on the way."

"Wait! Alec, hold on! We still have to meet America and Ru—"

"We're here, Iggy!"

Arthur turned his head, his eye twitching at the sight of Alfred, stuck as Allie, riding on Ivan's back and waving gleefully. Natalia and Adrian were close behind, although she was literally running along with the boy in a tow. "Where did you—why are you in a dress?"

"Oh, that." He shrugged, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. "I can't change back."

That statement took a while to sink in, but its impact was just as Alfred had expected. "Oh God, you're—" Arthur smacked his palm on his forehead, accidentally tripping if not for Alec's hold. "Couldn't you find a better time to do it than here—?"

"Damn, Iggy, I didn't get laid _here_, chill—"

Alec stopped abruptly at a clearing, looking around. "This is important, so I need you all to listen to me. When Mikhail and I were bringing Evangeline back, we met the 1960 France—"

"You left out the part about James," Mikhail added.

Adrian's ears perked up, but he couldn't leave Natalia's side. The woman was holding onto him as if her life depended on it. "Who's James?"

"_Nobody_! That's nobody!" Alec said quickly, glaring at Mikhail. "The point is, France is going to catch up to us, because I kind of…jumped him to get away."

"Isn't that interesting information, _mon cher_."

"Not that way, Dad. And according to Evangeline, the 1960 England is supposedly here, so…"

"We are going to Munich to meet up with Germany and the rest," Arthur explained to Alfred, "and from here to Munich by car will be approximately over three hours, depending on the traffic. By plane it would be thirty minutes."

Alfred took that opportunity to pitch in his two cents, clutching his husband's shoulder as he slid off his back (good thing for Ivan, too, because Alfred, even if he didn't show it, had gotten heavier). "We also met the past us in New York and now they're following us and trying to kill us."

"…_what_?"

Natalia rolled her eyes. "It is all America's fault, right, Big Brother?"

"Uh…"

"It shouldn't be too much of a problem. It's not like they know where we're going." The American hopped off Ivan's back and pointed to a parked van, which probably belonged to a Christmas market vendor, seeing as it bore huge vintage printings of snowmen and candy canes. "We have to drive to Munich."

"That's not our—"

"It is now." Natalia grabbed the handle of the door and jerked it open, destroying the lock in the process. "Get in before the owner notices."

"America, this is _illegal_—"

"We'll give it back…somehow. Don't be a killjoy, Iggy, it might be fun."

"Fun? I'm stealing a 1960s car with a crazy woman and a pregnant moron!"

"That could be fun. Hey Ivan, there's free cookies in the back!"

Natalia drove her knife in the driver's seat before Alfred could sit on it. "I am driving, идиот," she growled, pulling it out and jamming it into the keyhole; miraculously, the engine rumbled to life.

Evangeline tapped Arthur on the shoulder anxiously. "Mom?"

"_America_, you can't do—oh, I apologize, Evan. What was that?"

"Is it possible to alter the timeline?"

He turned around, his eyes wide. "Have you done something?"

Oh, shit. "Um…nope. Just wondering."

"How did you find 1960, Evangeline?" Francis piped up, which earned him a slap to the backside of his head from Arthur ("It's not a vacation, git.")

That reminded her of something. "Can I see your arm, Dad?" She rolled his sleeves up and turned it palm-up to examine it—a thin slit of white had replaced the jagged wound she'd bandaged the day before. Evangeline sighed, relieved, and hugged him. "That's good."

"What is the matter?" Francis chuckled, running through her hair with his fingers. "Did you miss me?"

Evangeline murmured dissent into his shirt, but she didn't let go, either.

Adrian, finally free of Natalia, stopped Alec before the boy slid into the backseat. "How'd the week go for you?"

"Oh, it went along perfectly, thank you for asking." He paused, remembering that he had on Adrian's scarf. He unraveled it and wrapped it around Adrian's neck. "Sorry, I kind of took it with me. I don't think your aunt will be too happy about me wearing it."

"That's alright—"

"_Alec! Alec Bonnefoy_!"

"Did I hear someone call your name—_agh_!"

Alec, panicked, brusquely shoved his boyfriend inside the car before Adrian could see who'd yelled, slipping in after and slamming the door shut. "Drive!"

Alec swore, if James actually followed him to Munich, he was going to ram a rock into that thick skull of his. As Natalia stepped on the accelerator, the lights of the Strasbourg Christmas market grew dimmer, and James Chase shrinked into a tiny, jumping dot in the distance. But what he didn't know was that France and England had followed James and were right behind him, watching the van disappear into traffic.

* * *

_December 1, 1960, Christmas market, Munich, West Germany, 11:02 P.M…_

Ludwig kneaded his temple with two fingers, as if he believed that if he concentrated hard enough, his headache would disappear. He knew it was a bad idea to split up (Lovino's demands: "I'm not staying with the potato for another minute, Spain! I can find Felicita quicker by myself!"), especially when it was dark and any of these tourists visiting the marketplace could be molesters or druggies or worse, _both_—

Oh, no, why did he have to think of that after he let Feliciano go explore the market on his own? (Okay, maybe not entirely on his own, he was with his brother and Antonio, but _still_…) He wanted to bash his head on a wall when he remembered how he dumbly waved back to Feliciano as he dashed excitedly into the market ("Ve, I'll see you later, Ludwig!")

…well, at least he managed to send Walther home, after supplying him with glass after glass of wine on the plane. That had not been an easy feat, given that the assistant was still conscious after six rounds.

He squeezed into the crowd; with any luck he might bump into Feliciano, and, if life took pity on him and changed his luck, maybe even his daughter.

* * *

_December 1, 1960, Christmas market, Munich, West Germany, 11:08 P.M…_

Italy did not look happy.

He was strolling alongside Germany, which, Felicita assumed, was a good thing, but Italy was staring down at his shoes, moving silently and awkwardly. She was about to approach him to ask him if he was feeling alright when Gilbert latched onto her and Aloisa's arm, pulling them back.

Aloisa hissed, "What are you doing—"

He ignored her and took another step back, calling out to his brother, "West, I'm just going to bring these two home, it's really late, and you can continue your awesome date with Feli, how about that?"

Germany whipped around, his face bright red. "It's not—"

"Kesesese, don't have too much fun without your _bruder_, okay?" Out of the corner of his mouth, he whispered to the girls, "And now…we run before he stops us…"

"Why do we have to—_agh_, put me down, Onkel Gilbert!"

"Damn, Aloisa, you're heavy. You should lose some weight—_ow_—"

"That's brilliant, coming from someone who snuck downstairs at night and ate the entire tiramisu Mom was saving for everyone the next day—"

"Hey, how'd you know—"

"—_and_ you ate all of Vati's fruit torte along with his beer and passed out on the floor—"

"…you were stalking me, weren't you."

She twisted out of Gilbert's hold and hopped down, the three slowing to a walk near a churro stand (Felicita drifted over there in a matter of seconds, with Gilbird fluttering close by). "No," she said. "I got up for a drink of water and I tripped over you." Aloisa gave him a look. "I had to wake Vati up to drag you back upstairs."

"West didn't tell me any of this—"

"You think he wants to remind himself that he had to pull himself up from bed at two in the morning to clean up after you?" She crossed her arms. "Forget it. Why did you take us here?"

"Giving your parents some alone time," he said irritably. "And we can leave them easier if England decides to get off his ass and pick us up tonight—"

"Onkel!"

"Right, sorry, sorry." He sobered up as he shot a glance at Aloisa's parents, his expression almost akin to the one the 1960 Prussia had made. "When we go back," he started haltingly, as if choosing his words, "I think it would be better if you don't tell your Mutti and West about this."

She looked at him apprehensively. "About what?"

"Those two don't talk about this time much," he muttered to himself, and before Aloisa could find out what he meant by that, Gilbert started to rock on his heels like a kid, yawning loudly. "_Damn_, I left the beer in the house. Let's go buy some."

"But—wait, you didn't answer me yet!"

He strode ahead, his hands clasped behind his head. "Answer what?"

"Answer—what, are you serious? About my parents! What am I not supposed to remind them of?"

For a moment there, she waited for him to spew out a lame reply (which she would appropriately respond by tugging on his cheek, of course), but Gilbert said, "Do you know how old your parents are?"

"That reminds me; you never even told me your age—"

He held up his hand. "Here's an example for you: you see your friends, that Meekul kid—"

"Mikhail!"

"—yeah, that's what I said. Look at his parents. You think Russia and America were like that sixty years ago? America might be jumping Russia every chance he gets in the present, but in this time period, they spend their free time mangling each other. The last thing either wants to do is be within a fifty mile radius of the other, much less screw each other senseless—"

"What's your point?"

"My point _is_ that West may be totally pussy whipped by Feli right now, but I think it's a hell lot better than this." Gilbert gestured to the receding figures of Italy and Germany; there was obviously a space between them. "Don't remind them. Got it?"

That was more than she'd expected, and from someone like Gilbert, too. "Yep."


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews/favs/alerts! Lateness because of school panic and other deadlines that died on me, and also 'cause I tried to fit everything in one chapter, lol.  
****  
Sp/grammatical errors will be corrected after publication. Esp. this chapter. There must be a million of them hiding here. **

**Notes:**- **h t t p :/ peppa minty. deviant art. com/#/ d3flsqv **Another doodle by **peppaminty**, this time featuring trolling!Adrian and Mikhail. Oh, the joys Adrian's face brings me. 8D  
-**h t t p : / ctd - ptp - fan /#/ d3gkykv** by **.Gilbird**! Here's the kids as adorable little kitties! Dang, I want me a cat!Adrian.  
-By the way: I spy **Doujinshi** update! Please visit **StaneshiftTheWolf** on deviantART and check it out! :)  
-This chapter was, by far, the most difficult chapter I've written. I must've edited the first scene ten times before I left it alone. I wanted to bring back 1960!Italy as how he'd appeared in the very beginning of PTP, but ended up discovering that I have trouble balancing seriousness and humor. Please excuse me if some parts seem a little OOC.  
-Oh, and Walther snaps and there is (fail) DenNor fluff. That is all.

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

_December 1, 1960, Christmas market, Munich, West Germany, 11:15 P.M…_

He panicked, Italy will admit that much. He had originally wished to confront Germany about the letters, but he didn't want to be alone with him. So he told a little lie about having to use the bathroom in order to make his escape.

Something was stirring inside him and making him nauseous (it was probably his stomach); he needed pasta, but instead he fished out a pack of smokes from deep within his jacket pocket. He hadn't held a cigarette since the girls arrived, and he lit it with shaky hands. _Calm down_, he told himself. _I'm not scared of Ludwig. Then why—?_

Because of a possibility that a dead little boy from a lifetime ago might be alive and the same person Italy had just ran from.

Italy's thought ended there, because he already had an answer to that for the past couple of centuries. France himself had personally come to him to inform him of the dissolution, out of guilt or sympathy, Italy wasn't sure. And he had accepted the fact as easily and lightly as though France had commented on the weather. But he didn't forget, and he would never forget. He had pushed it to the back of his mind and buried it, and he definitely did not expect that to bite back in the future.

This time was the same, then. He'll just go back to Germany and act no different; forget about the letters, it was none of his business, after all. He exhaled and blew out a puff of grey air that quickly dissipated as the breeze brushed it away. How long can one cigarette last him this time? How long can he leave Germany in the market by himself?

And who was Aloisa, the girl who bore such uncanny similarities—her hair, her blue eyes, the way she could shout as loud as he—to Germany? Most of all, how can she look and act of much like Germany, but still understand exactly what Italy was thinking?

Italy grimaced, dropping his half-gone cigarette on the snow and stamping it out. He didn't care. Why should he care? His hand reached up to his forehead, touching the linen of the bandage. The next thing he knew his cheeks were wet, the clear droplets of water running down his face and staining his sleeve. He clenched his teeth, hissing to himself, "_Merda_—"

"Feliciano? Is that you?"

The voice was obvious, and it was getting more distinct as the speaker moved closer. Italy's sentence lodged in his throat, and he was desperately hoping that Germany didn't hear what he'd uttered. "Oh," he chuckled quietly, rubbing at his eyes. "I'm sorry, Germany. I took too long, didn't I?"

The person replied, relief evident in his tone, "No, of course not, I'm just glad I found you. What are you doing here? Where did your brother and Spain go?" He stopped, seeming to be scrutinizing Italy. "Did you change your clothes?"

"V-ve, Germany is silly, I'm wearing the same thing you—" Italy stuttered to a whisper once he recognize who he was talking to—pale blue eyes, dark overcoat, blond bangs. "Holy Roman…Empire?"

The man responded by pressing his palm to Italy's forehead and cocking his head, eyeing the bandage curiously. "You haven't called me that in a long time." When Italy only gaped at him, Ludwig sighed. "You're probably tired. It is pretty late, I suppose. Let's go find Romano so we can stop for now—"

He was brusquely jerked back by Italy into a tight hug, his grip on Ludwig's wrist iron. The blond's eyes widened in shock, "Feli—"

Italy's voice was choppy as he struggled to get the words out. "You're _alive_!"

Ludwig blinked, his eyes darting between Italy and the market. "Um…I don't see a reason why I shouldn't be—"

"France told me you died!"

"_Pardon_?" He raised an eyebrow, stunned for an instant. "Feli, there are a lot of things that France says, but thirty five percent of them are incorrect and the rest are plain inappropriate—"

"No, no, no, you don't understand! You were dissolved!" Italy pushed him back, a smile breaking out. "I'm happy you're alive! I-I don't know how, but—"

"Italy!" Ludwig placed both hands on the other's shoulder to steady him, looking straight into his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

In one swift motion, he tugged at Ludwig's tie and pulled him down to his eye level, and Ludwig wasn't entirely sure if he was overjoyed or extremely pissed. "You're the Holy Roman Empire!" But there was a note of doubt present.

Either he was missing out on a lot at home, or his wife had acquired super strength overnight. "Not anymore—"

"…what?" Italy loosened his grip, his breath hitching. "I-I don't—who _are_ you?"

Okay, now he was scared. "What do you—'Who am I?' I'm Ludwig!"

The reply came out thin and doubtful. "You're…Germany?"

Impatience, followed by anxiety, crept into Ludwig's voice as he folded his arms. "Feliciano, what is going on?"

Then the impossible happened: if Italy looked annoyed before, his expression switched to completely vicious as the words dawned on him. He let go of Ludwig and started to pummel the man's arms with surprising force (which meant that yes, it actually hurt), letting out a string of unintelligible Italian.

"Felici—"

"I thought you were _dead, _but you were alive all this time and you couldn't even bother to tell me you were the goddamn _Holy Roman Empire_, you selfish bastard—"

He held up his arms defensively, alarmed at the sharp change in the Italian's demeanor. "I've told you before! You already know!"

"No, I don't, _Germany_," he spat out the last word in three strangled syllables. "_Mio Dio_, I-I could just shoot you right now! Keeping all these stupid letters that you could've sent—you knew I lo—" The words caught in his throat. "—You knew he was important to me!"

"Feli—"

Italy squeezed his eyes shut, taking a step back. "I _hate_ you."

But he knew he didn't mean it the moment the words spilled from his lips.

Ludwig was taken aback, feeling the pang of guilt that he'd made Italy cry (not that he didn't feel bad every other hundred times his wife cried over something, usually about burnt pasta), but before he could ramble on to a long "explanation" (in other words, a complete fib) in an attempt to cheer the auburn-haired man up, Ludwig realized that his dear Feli had just swore.

Which meant that this wasn't Italy.

No—rather, this wasn't his Feliciano. This man, red-faced from fury and shame, was the 1960 Italy. And Ludwig had just broken a piece of information to Italy which he wasn't supposed to know yet.

Ludwig had supposed the world would collapse on him once he ruined the timeline (him, of all people!), but when nothing happened, he relaxed and took Italy's hands, to which the brown eyed man reacted by flinching. "Felic—Italy…I can explain…"

His tone was bitter, the anger directed mostly at himself. "Explain what?"

"Everything!" Okay, maybe not _everything_, but he wasn't about to make Italy blow another fuse. "I promise I'll tell you!"

"There's nothing to say." He shook off the hold and spun around, but he turned back at the last instant as if struck by a notion. "Do you know what I hate more than war?"

Ludwig remained silent, assessing on how to approach that inquiry in the safest manner possible. Italy's voice dropped, "I hate promises, because in the end..." He bit his lip and stared at a speck of snow that had drifted onto Ludwig's shoulder. "…in the end, they're all lies."

A rush of wind blew Italy's bangs astray, followed by a slow, gradual snowfall. A clamor of delighted exclamations rose as the crowd pointed skywards into the night.

"_Look, look, it's snowing again…_"

The words Feliciano had told him at the park in Manhattan rang in Ludwig's ears instead, a faint reminder imprinted in the back of his head—

"…_I'll always love Ludwig as Ludwig, okay?" _

Italy shook his head, distraught. "I suppose I'm a liar, too. I'm going to have to break my own promise to you, Germany. Please tell Aloisa and Felicita I had to return home…"

Italy took a wary step backwards, as if he was waiting to see if the other would try and stop him, before breaking out into a sprint, faster than Ludwig had ever seen him run. Unfortunately for Ludwig, whenever an event this mind-numbing occurred, his head tended to go into a blank; in those three seconds when Italy paused, he could've reached out and grabbed his wrist.

It wasn't until Italy was well-blended into the crowd did Ludwig regain his sense and dash after him, real panic pounding in his ears. For a split second, Ludwig felt a pair of eyes trained on him, and he almost lost sight of Italy. He had no time to deal with more scouts or anyone like that, therefore he decided to ignore it, for he supposed he was probably wrong anyways.

After all, it wasn't as if someone was following him with a gun. The worst he could imagine right now was Lovino beating him unconscious with tomatoes. At the rate of how things were currently going, the percentage of that actually happening seemed liker than ever.

* * *

_December 1, 1960, Germany's house, Munich, West Germany, 11:16 P.M…_

Aloisa poked her head into the cabinets, checking out the contents before moving on to the next. "I can't find your beer. Where did you say you put it?"

Gilbert looked up from his place on the floor at her. "I found it. It's okay if you're not awesome enough to see it—_ow_!" He gingerly touched his forehead, where the girl had chucked a banana at. "Dammit! You and West both need to take some sort of father-and-daughter anger management classes. Why can't you be more like Felicita?" He stared at the fruit. "A banana. _Really_, Aloisa?"

The blond threw him a dirty look, and Felicita stopped rummaging in the fridge. She had hoped to find the leftover churros she'd bought from the last Christmas market visit, but apparently someone (Gilbert) had eaten them. "What do you mean? Aloisa's a nice person."

"See?"

Gilbert carried a beer case in each hand, lightly swinging them back and forth like weights. "Nah, she's only nice to the people she likes."

The blond raised an eyebrow. "I like you, Onkel Gilbert," she said, slowly and deliberately. When Gilbert looked unimpressed, she huffed. "I'm sure you're a wonderful person inside. You know, deep inside."

Gilbert set a pack down and put his hand to his heart, feigning surprise. "I am _touched_."

"What? I'm nice to plenty of people," she said, scowling.

"Like the commie's kid?"

Aloisa got up on the counter and reached inside the top cabinet, taking out Italy's opened gift to Germany (courtesy of Gilbert). "Who, Adrian?"

"No, the creepy one, Russia's clone. Merkeel, was it—?" He snatched the cookie box from her hands and added it to his pile of beer and recovered souvenirs.

"Hey!" Aloisa blinked and turned away. "So? What about Mikhail?"

"You like him, don't you?"

This time she sputtered, her face reddening instantly. "W-what gave you that idea?"

"Man, you're just like West. Gets embarrassed whenever Feli's around him, but he used to have this secret stash of por—"

Felicita interjected before Gilbert spewed any more nonsense. "But I though Jack Howell likes Aloisa."

The man glanced up interestedly. "Who's that?"

Despite Aloisa rapid hand waving, Felicita continued, "It's that soccer captain. He keeps following her around and trying to talk to her, and Mikhail gets all pissed whenever he's around—"

"Felicita!" she hissed.

The brunette cringed. "Oops."

Gilbert folded his arms, smirking. "Better not tell West that one, huh?"

Aloisa looked absolutely mortified. "_No_. And I do not like him. He needed help with his homework—"

He shook his head, acting as if he was disappointed. "You believe that?"

She nodded. "Of course! Not everyone is like you, Onkel."

"And all the more pity there is." He whistled a short note, his eyes darting from his niece to the ground. "So…I guess you won't mind me letting West know about Mr. Soccer Captain, hm?"

"You breathe a word and I will mail all your pictures with Matthew to Elizaveta. I'm sure she'll be glad to have them."

He gaped at her, startled. "You wouldn't—"

The doorbell buzzed, drowning out Gilbert and his protests. Then came a series of furious knocking, as if whoever was outside was intent on smashing the door to splinters. Berlitz, who had been napping on the couch, was jarred awake and growled at the front door.

The muffled shriek came through: "_I know you're in there, Potato Bastard! If you're doing weird shit to my fratello I am going to rip your balls off and stuff them down your throat!_"

Then, "_Don't be like that, Lovi_…"

The hinges gave way on the third bash, the door flying open with the impact. Romano stepped in, his face red and definitely appearing displeased. "Where's my brother, Po—oh, it's you two." He surveyed the room disdainfully. "And the Potato's brother is here, too."

"Did you run away from Russia again, Gilbert?" Spain asked cheerfully. "How'd you get out this time?"

Romano shoved his palm into Spain's face none too delicately. "No one cares. I'm here to bring Feliciano back. Where is he?"

Gilbert answered, as if he wanted to redeem himself and get on Aloisa's good side for earlier. "West's on his date with your bruder, so you can come back tomorrow."

He looked to Aloisa, expecting her to grace him with a thankful smile for his awesomeness, but what he got was an incredulous glare, as if she couldn't believe the level of his stupidity.

"A _date_?" Romano repeated. "You—t-that's it! You're coming with me to find them!"

"Don't worry, West will take good care of Feli—_ack_—"

Despite the "reassurance", out of the house Gilbert went without his beer, dragged by the collar by a livid Romano. Aloisa turned her gaze to the gift box Gilbert had left on the counter, then swiped it before dashing after Felicita, who was engaged in a running conversation with Spain about tomatoes and turtles.

Aloisa was distracted for a moment, wondering exactly how her cousin and Spain's brain worked.

* * *

_December 1, 1960, Christmas market, Munich, West Germany, 11:20 P.M…_

America was beginning to suspect that there was something wrong with him; they had changed their route to Munich instead of Strasbourg based on the people they kept hearing. Those voices, alternating between their counterparts and the boys', had brought them to the Christmas market, and there America discovered a fact—staying with Russia for prolonged periods of time could turn a person paranoid. Or maybe it was just him.

"This is the third time we have passed this block, Alfred." He squinted at the teddy bear stand and shuddered, eyeballing a large platinum-colored teddy with a floppy bow on its head. "I think we need to stop."

America glowered, readjusting his glasses. "Will you _stop_ calling me that?"

"Why?"

The blond rolled his eyes when Russia gave him that insufferable smile. "_Because_ only Arthur and Mattie are allowed to call me that," he said. "You are not related to me nor are we in a relationship. Do you get it now?"

Russia was silent for a while. "But you have not seen England for months."

He flared up. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"I merely asked a question, Alfred," he replied coolly. "I only wondered if you would be unhappy if you and England were…let us say, 'No longer in a relationship.'"

"Of course I'd be pissed," America snapped. "What kind of a stupid question is that?"

The smile fell from Russia's face, barely noticeable save for a mild twitching in the corner of his lips that America caught. "I see."

America set his mouth into a thin line, puzzled by Russia's reaction. "You…" He stuffed his hands into his jacket pocket, faking a loud laugh that made passersby look at him funny. "You need to stop drinking, Braginski, the alcohol's deteriorating your brain, and you're crazy enough as it is."

"Perhaps."

Eventually, America's nervous chuckles died down. "I…" His expression became contemplative. "I don't think I'll be surprised if we break up."

Russia's eyes widened for a fraction of a second, then melted back to his original cheery look. "Is that so?"

"Why the hell are you smiling?" America said, scowling. "Here I am, telling you my troubles and—oh, I forgot, you don't care. And for a moment there I thought you wanted to know, you bastard."

"I did want to know, Alfred, and I am very sorry you feel that way."

"Then why did you ask me?"

Russia shrugged. "To see if things had changed."

America gaped at him. "You're horrible."

"So I've been told," he nodded benignly. "Alfred…"

He didn't bother to correct Russia now, since the man would purposely pretend to not hear. "What do you want? Is it's nothing important or if it's about Iggy then I don't—"

"If I asked you to kiss me, what would you say?"

America started to hack violently, having choked on his own saliva. "W-what?" he managed to croak.

Russia repeated it blandly, "If I asked you to kiss me, what—"

"I get it, I heard you the first time, dammit…" America could feel his face heating up. Oh no, oh no, this was not happening. He was _not_ blushing.

"I assumed you wanted me to clarify—"

"And here's your answer: I'd tell you to go fuck yourself." He crossed his arms, instantly finding it a bad idea since the air was practically freezing. "Is this one of your plans that involves everyone becoming one with you? One, it's not working, and two, it's even more ridiculous than Iggy's cooking—"

"That is curious. You seemed so eager last time…"

"It's not like I wanted to! Y-you heard them talking!" He fumbled around, unnerved by the Russian's incessant beaming. "I'm not becoming one with you!" he cried frantically. "Never ever, ever, ever, ever—don't touch me!" He swatted away a hand tousling his hair.

"Hush, you idiot, people are looking—"

"I'm not! You can't make me turn commie! I'm not, I'm not—_agh_!"

Then America was met with a blur that nearly toppled him over if Russia had not held on to his arm. The one who'd bumped into his shoulder looked at the blond fearfully, immediately apologizing. "I-I'm sorry! I wasn't looking—"

"Goddammit…" America rubbed his head and pushed Russia away. "It's okay—wait…aren't you Italy?"

Italy stuttered, throwing a backward glance and inching away. "O-oh, America…I'm really sorry, but this isn't the best time…" He wiped his eyes with his sleeve roughly. "I have to go…!" He sped away awkwardly, almost tripping himself.

"I bet his brother got mad at him again," America commented. When Russia remained quiet, he gave the man a little irritated shove. "Hey, did you hear me?"

Russia raised a gloved hand towards the distance; a glint of light flashed in that direction, steadily moving between the trees in the darkened park. "Over there," he said tightly.

"What is up with you?" He craned his neck to see above the crowd. "Are you afraid of the dark or something—" America stopped, focusing on the glimmer of brightness. "Is that…is that Belarus? What in the world is she carrying—"

"A mirror," Russia said, backing away and reflexively grabbing America's hand; he wasn't about to march up like a fool and question his sister. "I highly suggest we turn back for now."

"Stop touching me!" America tried to wrench away, but he sensed that this time Russia was serious, for he wouldn't budge. "You're looking for your sister, why are we going back—"

"We are not going to the park at night, Alfred." He strained to take another step, but America had latched on to his wrist with both hands doggedly. "We are heading back!"

"What is the matter with you, are you afraid of the dark?" Damn, Russia was heavy; America really had to hold on to even keep Russia in place. "We're—going—there—you—big—baby—"

"That is not the reason, you dimwit. I am not taking my sister back home at night. She will get the wrong impression."

"Fine!" He let Russia go, his eyes flashing. "If you're too scared to bring her back, then I will! I am not staying with you another night!"

"She is going to _murder_ you—" Russia raised a restraining hand, but it was too late. America darted towards the park, deftly weaving through the gaps in the crowd.

Oh, his sister was going to shred the dumbass to pieces with her nails once she realizes that Russia had given America her knife for safekeeping. Either that, or she'll probably find a way to disembowel him with that mirror, whatever it was for. Sighing, Russia shook away his hesitation and went after the American.

_What a troublesome person, _he thought. Then again, perhaps that was one of the reasons that made America so interesting…

* * *

_December 1, 1960, Christmas market, Munich, West Germany, 11:17 P.M…_

"Want a churro?"

Aloisa made a face, but she accepted the offering. Romano had pulled Spain ahead when he seemed to have spotted someone that resembled Germany (who, after being pulled to the side and violently interrogated by Romano, turned out to be a vendor); the good part was that Aloisa no longer felt a pair of brown eyes boring into the back of her head. "Spain bought it for you?"

Felicita nodded. "He's nice."

"You think everyone's nice."

She chewed slowly, contemplating this. "Not true," she said. "I don't like Jack Howell."

"Why not?" Aloisa asked, surprised. "He gives you and me a cup of coffee every morning."

"And you don't find that weird?"

She raised a shoulder. "What's wrong with it? He's paying me back for me tutoring him."

"Then why would he give me coffee, too? Why not Evangeline? Why not Alec?" She bit off another chunk, passing the bag to Gilbert.

Aloisa waved her churro in the air, emphasizing her point and dropping a lot of sugar crumbs. "Because Evangeline glares at him, and Adrian will punch his lights out if he gets within a foot radius of Alec."

"And she has a good reason to be mean," Felicita said. "He's a pretentious jerk. He cheated on his last girlfriend with this girl from another school."

"Those are just rumors—"

"I saw her! She had dyed blond hair and she drove to school in this red convertible and had these, like, D-cup boobs—"

"Felicita, I'm not going to date him."

The brunette relaxed visibly. "Oh. Just making sure, because sometimes you can get really airheaded."

She stuck her tongue out. "I resent that. And you're the most airheaded person I know."

Felicita laughed. "Well, as long as you know. At least Mikhail will be a little happier knowing that." She stopped, a squeak emitting from her throat. "Uh…I mean…I need…to…go to the bathroom."

Aloisa blinked, startled. "Mikhail? What's he got to do with this?"

"…did I say Mikhail? I meant…um, Mikalee. That new girl from Canada. Class B32, right— "

"We don't have a classroom like that, Felicita," Aloisa groaned in frustration. "I know what I heard."

"I know what I said."

"Wha—" Aloisa blinked, once. "Okay, now you're acting funny—"

"Funny? Who's acting funny?" she demanded testily, as if desperate to conceal something.

"I didn't mean it like that, calm down—"

The brunette gave a breathless, hysterical guffaw. "I'm calm! I'm completely calm! Who said I'm not calm?"

"Uh…"

"I think you want churros. You want churros?"

The blond held up the snack up. "I'm not done with min—"

"You do want churros, I'll get them. Where'd your uncle go—" And there Felicita discovered that walking backwards was not such a good idea, for when she turned around, her face slammed right into a person's back, presenting her with a mouthful of jacket. "_Bleh_!"

When the man turned his head, it took all his strength to keep his jaw from dropping in astonishment. "You're_…_"

She immediately recoiled and smacked her tongue, hoping that Spain wouldn't realize that she'd just licked his clothes. "Oh, Mr. Carriedo, I'm sorry—" Before Felicita could finish her sentence, she was gathered into a constricting embrace by Antonio, who had begun to sprout Spanish that she could not make sense of. "…what are you doing—woah!"

"It's you!" he cried gleefully, lifting her up and spinning her around. "I found you!"

Felicita hung on to the guy's back in case he decided to throw her across the street or something. "I know it's me! Mr. Carriedo, I thought we talked about this yesterday! Please put me down, I'm not Mr. Vargas—"

"I know you're not Lovi!" Finally Antonio set her down, but that didn't stop him from giving her another hug. "Speaking of which, your Mama was about to go postal, and you know how he gets when he's panicking, which is cute, but we were near a stand where they were selling kitchen knives—"

"_Spagna_! Where the hell did you go?" A new figure approached, angrily stomping out the words. "I told you to wait over there—"

"Mom?"

Felicita thought Lovino would collapse right there, judging by his expression, but apparently he still had enough energy left to shove Antonio away to hug the girl. "_Feli_!" And in machine-gun Italian: "_Thank goodness! Are you okay? Did the Potato hurt you? Did anything happen?" _and on and on, and the only word Felicita understood was "potato".

"I'm fine!" She clung to Lovino, patting him on the back. "Mom, don't cry—"

The noise that Lovino made was a cross between a drowning chicken and a balloon losing air. "I'm not crying, dammit!"

"You're adorable, Lovi!"

"They're allergies, fucker!" He balled his fists and rubbed his eyes. "I'm just tired!"

"I'll hug you, too, so you'll feel better!"

"Shut up, asshole!" Lovino started to wail, proclaiming at the same time that he wasn't crying, and that he would stab anyone who dared to say otherwise, but he didn't reject Antonio, either. Felicita could hear Aloisa's gasp and Gilbert's quiet, strange laugh behind her.

She supposed she'll ask about how they got here to 1960 later. "I'm glad to see you, Mama."

* * *

_December 1, 1960, Christmas market, Munich, West Germany, 11:17 P.M…_

Germany stood and waited at the exact corner where Italy had left him, next to the cuckoo clock booth; the longer he waited, the more often he heard the tick-tock of the clocks echoing in his head and making his headache worse. Perhaps if his idiot brother had not burst out for them to "have fun on their date", he wouldn't had felt that awkward and around Italy (and scared him away, most importantly). He was contemplating whether if Italy had left him for good when someone crashed into his back and wrapped their arms around his neck, crying out, "Ve, Ludwig!"

Germany's face heated up. "Ital—" Wait a minute. It was a girl, but he won't deny that she bore an extreme resemblance to Italy; she'd even got that wayward curl. "I'm sorry, I think you've got the wron—"

The brunette's face broke out in a beam. "You're silly, Ludwig. I know who you are! I can see you from a mile away!" He stopped, pondering his words. "Okay, maybe not that far, but I can definitely recognize you."

Germany lifted a finger, his brows creased in confusion. "You're in a dress," he stated flatly, for he couldn't think of anything else to say.

Feliciano nodded, grinning. "I know that. Fratello took Antonio someplace else, so I was hoping I could find you!" He added, "And you redid your hair! Well, I guess that's okay if we're here…"

The blond still appeared dazed. "Did you go to the restroom to change?" he asked.

"No…" Feliciano's smile dissolved, replaced by concern. "Are you getting senile?"

"What—no, I am not!"

Feliciano put a finger to his lips thoughtfully. "It could happen. You should eat pasta. It might help."

"But I'm not—"

"It's okay! When we get home I'll make you and Aloisa some! I'll even add in your yucky wursts, would that be better?"

"Uh, I suppose—"

His eyes brightened. "Really? And you'd eat everything?"

"Sure—"

Feliciano's stare hardened. "That's what you said last time. Pinky promise." He offered his hand, his pinky curved in expectation. Germany had not seen that gesture coming from Italy for years.

Germany complied, and Feliciano's face glowed. "_Ti amo_, Ludwig!"

His heart pounded. "Do you mean it, Feliciano?" he asked softly.

The other man blinked, confused as to why Germany would ask such a question and why he wasn't returning the sentiment as usual. "Of course!" Then his eyes looked past the flustered Germany and gleamed with joy. "Ve! It's Aloisa and fratello and everybody! Ludwig, let's go!"

"Aloisa? But she went back—"

But there they were—Germany recognized his brother, though there was a woman next to Antonio who could've been Romano's evil twin sister. Felicita was riding on Antonio's shoulders, and the one who was bounding towards them was none other than Aloisa.

Feliciano's hand grabbed onto Germany's wrist and led him through the crowd, practically leaping on his daughter and cooing with mirth. Aloisa, on the other hand, immediately blushed as she returned the hug. Before looking up, she instantly latched on to Germany's waist as soon as Feliciano released her, startling him a great deal.

Germany stood stiffly. "Aloisa…"

Her voice was muffled, but he was positive he heard: "I'm sorry, Vati."

The last word froze him. He gently pushed the girl away, his lips moving silently at first. "…what are you doing?" he said finally.

There came a gap of stunned silence. Gilbert gawked at his brother, slapping his palm to his forehead. "Shit!"

Lovino turned his head sharply. "What the hell?"

Aloisa cringed at her uncle's outburst. "Onkel—"

"That's not your Vati!" He strode forward and picked Aloisa up, slinging her over his shoulder and all the while eyeing Germany for any sudden movements. Lovino glared at Germany in terrible realization as he backed up. He uttered one word—

"Run!"

Feliciano looked at his brother, baffled. "Why—"

"Wrong potato bastard!" he shouted, taking Feliciano's hand and dashing after Antonio.

The last thing Ludwig noticed before Feliciano disappeared into the sea of tourists was his eyes, wide in fright, but otherwise unmarred by guilt and resentment.

A dull pain prodded at his temple then, jerking him out of his dazed stupor. One step followed the next, and soon he realized he was following Feliciano, chasing after the one who he thought had been lost to him.

* * *

_December 1, 1960, Christmas market outskirts, Munich, West Germany, 11:25 P.M…_

"I can't think with you breathing down my neck, frog!" Arthur glanced about, one eyebrow twitching in annoyance. "Where did Belarus go?"

Alfred shrugged. "Dunno. Should we put Ivan out as bait?"

The Russian gave Alfred a startled look as Arthur groaned. "Great. Where did Alec go?"

Evangeline crossed her arms. "He's behind that tree. With Adrian," she added tightly.

"We can't have people coming and going! We need to figure out a way back first—"

He felt a slight tap on his shoulders and nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw Natalia standing behind him, half-concealed in darkness and gazing at him with those blank eyes. "Bloody hell—and what in the world did you bring?"

"A mirror," she said. "If we got here through a mirror, we can go back using a mirror, is that correct?"

"Yes, but this wouldn't happen to be Anne Boleyn's mirror, would it?" Arthur waved it away. "Never mind. It'll have to do… Wherever did you find it?"

Natalia had glided to her brother's side as if her feet were on wheels. She grabbed onto his arm, laying her head on his shoulder while the man tried to ignore the need to chew his arm off. "I borrowed it from a stall."

"Right." He then busied himself with the mirror, sliding one finger along the glass pane and muttering under his breath. "This is ridi—_agh! _What the hell, America!"

Alfred had popped out from behind the mirror with his fingers pulling his mouth open in a childlike manner. He rolled his eyes, pouting. "You really are no fun, Iggy."

"I am busy! Don't touch the mirror! You'll soil it!"

"You know," he said, walking around the Brit, "I doubt this will work."

"What are you talking about?" Arthur snarled.

The American prodded Arthur's cheek with one finger. "I mean, your cooking isn't your most reliable skill, so I hope you weren't practicing your magic the same way you practice cooking—"

From inside his jacket, Arthur produced a wand that suspiciously looked like it was made out plastic (and possibly in China, too). "Sod off or I'm going to set your arse on fire!"

Alfred only laughed, stepping out of Arthur's reach. "Did you get that from Wal-Mart?"

"That's it! You're going to—"

"_Feliciano_!"

Alfred had stopped running when he heard the outburst, the Brit nearly crashing into him head-on. Ludwig's voice, Arthur supposed, relieved that he wouldn't have to go look for them, for his cell phone had ran out of batteries an hour ago. But then there followed a shriek of terror, accompanied by the crackling of glass. Arthur turned his head at the mirror, which had shattered into pieces. A lone bullet was embedded in the board.

"What the—" Arthur and Alfred ran out into the open, the direction where the bullet had come from; Feliciano was kneeling on the ground in shock, the thin bullet graze on his cheek bleeding. The crowd in the back had dispersed once the shot rang out, tittering in frightened tones.

The moment Arthur came into view, the man wielding the gun directed it at him, his mouth cracked open in a demented grin. A few yards away to Arthur's left was Ludwig, whose arms were reaching out towards Feliciano in horror, and America, who switched his attention to Arthur briefly, gaping in astonishment; Antonio and Lovino were to the left, their faces pale and stricken. It was Aloisa who had screamed.

Germany soon showed up from behind Lovino. His eyes widened in terror as he bellowed at the attacker, looking from Feliciano to his other self to Arthur. "_What the hell is going on_?"

The man chuckled darkly. "I knew there was something wrong when you showed up in New York, Mr. Beilschmidt," he said smoothly to Germany, but his deranged expression told otherwise. "Because you weren't in New York. You were never there. _They_ know who you are, however. We can't risk this information leaking out to the public."

With that said, Klaus Walther raised the gun and pointed it straight at Feliciano's forehead.

* * *

_December 1, present, England's house, 11:25 P.M…_

The mirror was not supposed to break. Now that Norway thought about it, how could it even break? The frame might've been old as shit, but there was no reason for it to spontaneously combust like that. What the hell was wrong with that thing? He sat outside on the front porch, sucking in his lower lip. At least the visiting nations had finally gone back to their hotels save for Heracles, so Norway didn't have to explain to England why there was a bunch of people gathered at his house when he returned.

If Denmark had not the good sense to duck when he hugged Norway from behind, his nose would've been smashed in. "You still mad at me, Norge?"

Norway resisted the urge to roll his eyes. _No, absolutely not, you knucklehead, _he wanted to say, but he stayed silent, willing himself to focus back on the mirror. Just how long three layers of duct tape and hot glue can hold, he didn't know—

"I was kidding when I said you demolished it. It broke on its own, okay?" He exhaled. "Look, I'm sorry if I pissed you off."

No response.

"What do you want me to do?"

Again, no response.

Denmark scratched his head. "Um…I can give you a massage—"

"Will you shut up for one second?"

His shoulders slumped in defeat. "Oh. Alright then…"

Norway sighed under his breath before turning around. "What is it, _Danmark_?"

"…I can take you out to that restaurant you like," he proposed eagerly.

"We'll have to bring Anne and Eirik," Norway said, trying to keep his embarrassment hidden behind his monotonous voice.

Denmark stuttered out, "What—_no, no, no_, this is for us. You know, me and you." Norway narrowed his eyes suspiciously when the man made a gesture. "Alone." The blond received another look. Uh-oh. "By ourselves…?"

"No."

"_Come on_!" He sounded like a teenager begging to go to a late-night party. A loud, particularly annoying teenager.

"Stop whining. Either they come or I'm not going."

"B-but—okay, okay, whatever you want," he muttered.

When Norway stood up and shot him an especially dangerous glare, Denmark honestly thought he was done for. But he suddenly perched on his tippy-toes and pecked Denmark on the lips, blushing furiously. "Thank you, Mathias."

He was preparing to bolt inside the house when Denmark grabbed on to his wrist and pulled him back, his eyes flashing. "Is that a yes?" he asked between kisses, smirking victoriously.

"Maybe," Norway breathed back, gasping for air.

"Are Anne and Eirik asleep?"

"I think so."

Norway didn't pull away until Denmark's hand traveled from the small of his back to someplace lower. That was when Norway's eyes snapped open and raised his right hand to strike. He married an idiot, that was for sure, but his face dusted with pink as he remembered something. _Then what does that make me?_


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews/favs/alerts! And bear with me here on the long A/N, it's mostly explanations. Strange chapter, this one is; reason being that I've accidently stumbled upon too many wonderfully angsty USUK stories and now I need to write something stupidly happy. XD **

**Sp/grammatical errors will be corrected after publication. **

**EDIT: **Vote for CTD/PTP website icon (if the contest is still going on...^^;;) Send your votes as notes to the site. Thanks!

**Notes:**-**Painting the Past Doujinshi **by **peppaminty **is updated! **h t t p :/ ctd -ptp- fanclub. deviant art. com/#/ d3h4knw **or visit the CTD/PTP site for the cover and pages 1-2!  
-And also a shouts out of thanks to **SoulEaterRomanceFan **for reading and taking time to leave reviews** (**who I unfortunately cannot PM back because FFnet won't let me). To all your questions, hopefully I will be able to answer them here and clear everyone else's confusion!  
-I am also told that Evan Brown, Evangeline's alias, is not a good thing to be called in that time period. Honestly, I didn't notice it before, so I guess it's pure coincidence for the name similarities? I apologize if I've offended anyone; it was a lack of research on my part. oTL||

**Warnings**: A lot of cheesiness, fluff, illogicalness, crack, magic, bad translations, and blood. And I hope the French is correct. Please do correct me if I am wrong.

**Quick summary on where the story is:**-1960!Italy appears in the first scene in the last chapter, where the present Ludwig finds him. There Italy runs away to the first scene here in Chapter 18, and Ludwig takes a wrong turn and ends up watching the present Feliciano nearly get shot by Walther.  
-1960!America and 1960!Russia were strolling the market until they saw present!Natalia carrying a mirror. America runs ahead, Russia follows, and they end up in the Walther scene.  
-Then we'd headed back to Germany's house to Gilbert and the girls, who are dragged out by 1960!Romano and 1960!Spain to find Italy.  
-Gilbert and the girls then meet up with the present!Lovino and Antonio. They soon find the present!Feliciano talking with 1960!Germany, who is completely baffled. They run with Germany following, and end up in the Walther scene.  
-Christmas market outskirts is basically a separation between the actual market and the park, hidden behind trees. The present nations and their kids have arrived; the bullet that pierced the mirror was from Walther's gun, and that was how the mirror in the present got destroyed. Oh, and ignore the time paradox/difference that makes no sense.

**Remember**: 1960!countries are referred to by their respective nation names! And present countries by their human names.

**Further explanations for this chapter:**-Gilbert left the picture in the envelope when he was stashing his beer away on the first day. This is before Italy found the letters. Reason? I'll leave that to you.  
-And yes, they're going to leave Walther there. Problem? 83  
-Memory wipe for every nation except for Arthur, because he's got dem fairies. Relate the memory wipe to Anne Boleyn. She makes a brief appearance here.

**NEWS**: Wah, PTP is nearing its end! (I think the next chapter will be the last, filled with the Midsummer Night's Dream play and other school stuff). Working out the plot holes of a possible last installment to CTD/PTP (and damn, there's a buttload of them), but the thing is that if I do write it, I will be extremely busy with schoolwork at that time (God, I don't even want to think about it), so chapters might come ever slower than the PTP chapters.

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

_December 1, 1960, Christmas market, Munich, West Germany, 11:30 P.M…_

Italy slowed to a walk once he was certain that Ludwig had been trapped in the crowd. He went ahead aimlessly, one foot after the other, and it wasn't until he heard the familiar screech of Romano nearby did he turn his head. "Fratello…"

He had said this in hushed tones, but Romano paused and searched about until he saw Italy. "_You_!" he yelled, pointing an accusing finger. "There you are, you idiot! I've been looking all over for you, and I got so distracted I lost sight of the potato's brother and those two kids! It's all your—" He hesitated, Italy's unresponsive demeanor registering. "What's the matter with _you_?"

"It's nothing, Romano," he murmured. "Did you have a nice time with Spain—?"

"Don't try to change the topic," Romano growled. "Did the potato bastard do something to you?"

Italy's heart sank at that. "Of course not, fratello."

Spain ruffled Italy's hair—as a good-natured sort of reassurance, he supposed. "If you feel sick, Feli, we can go back right now," he said soothingly. "Do you have a stomachache?"

That was what Germany had always asked. Italy gulped and straightened with a tight smile. "I'm fine. Just a little tired," he added doubtfully.

Romano narrowed his eyes, as though if he didn't believe the statement either, but he swatted Spain's hand away from Italy. "Stop touching my brother, bastard." Turning back to the brunette, he continued, "What do you want to do, are you going to go back to the potato's house—"

The reply was imminent, much to Romano's surprise. "No," he said. "I want to go home now."

Mainly because there was no way Germany would let him go back.

"W-why—" He stopped himself before the sentence spilled out and turned around. "Let's go, then."

Spain stayed where he was. "What about Gilbert?"

"What about the potato?" Romano shrugged ruthlessly. "He won't die out here, if that's what you're asking. We're going home." He tugged at Italy's arm. "What are you waiting for?"

With shocking strength, Italy wrenched away to remove a piece of yellowed envelope from his pocket. His eyes hardened as he pinched the sides of the sheet, preparing to rip.

Something fell out as he shook it, however—a small, colored photograph of a brunette and Germany, who was not wearing his military uniform, and someone who seemed like a younger version of Aloisa, riding on Germany's shoulders and mussing his hair. Behind Germany was Prussia, who looked as if he'd regained his original vivacity, and was drawing the corners the Germany's mouth into a forced grin. In scrawled out handwriting that definitely did not belong to Germany, the back bore the date and some notes—_Italy, West, Aloisa, and the Awesome Me,_ _July 12, 20_…

The envelope dropped to the ground, forgotten, as Italy turned to the front and scrutinized the woman, his cheek stinging as though he'd been slapped. She was a young lady, a pretty one at that, clad in a summer dress with one hand holding onto her hat to prevent it from flying away. She was laughing at Germany's strained face, though her attention seemed to be mostly focused on the younger Aloisa. From underneath the floppy hat, a wild curl poked out from the left side of her hair.

Italy gaped in disbelief. "What—"

It was then the three heard the unmistakable noise of gunfire, followed by a chorus of scattered exclamations. The tourists quickly scurried away from the source of the sound, but Italy took a step forward. Romano flinched and he nearly jumped on the Spaniard, but he held back at the last moment to save whatever shreds of pride he had left. He reached out and grabbed his brother's wrist once he noticed the other moving away.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Veneziano?"

Italy's eyes were glued onto the photograph, teeming with questions too strange to be real. "I…" He swallowed. He didn't know where the picture had come from; last time he'd been so bent on the letter and frazzled he hadn't seen it at all…

"I'm going back to Ludwig, fratello," he finally said, his lip quivering, but not from fright. "I have to talk to him."

Romano wrung his hand in obvious distress. "What are you, nuts? There's probably a mental patient on the loose over there—"

"I-I don't understand it," he answered excitedly, "but maybe…" _Maybe that was what Ludwig meant when he said he'd explain everything. _"That means…that means he wasn't lying…"

"Hey! Venezi—come back, you bastard! You just got here!" He groaned at Italy, who'd darted back into the crowd that was currently surging forward in fright. "We're bringing that idiot back!—_dammit_, get out of my way! Spain, hurry up!"

Said Spain was sidestepping and trying to avoid the rush of panicked passersby; he was actually doing a pretty nice job until he smacked into a pole and brought down an entire array of Christmas displays. "I wish I could, Lovi, but it's kind of—_agh_!"

"Idiota!" Romano rolled his eyes and took hold of Spain's hand (not that Spain minded, not at all). "Come on!"

Italy had waited far too long for a dream to materialize and bring a little boy back from the past… Perhaps it was time for him to go after the present. With that thought in mind, he raced ahead in renewed fervor. But a sudden sharp jab struck him in the shoulder that came out of seemingly nowhere, and the next thing Italy knew he was on the ground, the frantic hollers of his brother and Spain growing fainter as the world darkened.

* * *

_December 1, 1960, Christmas market outskirts, Munich, West Germany, 11:33 P.M…_

Arthur had some trouble putting the scenario together at first. There was Ludwig to the left, too far to reach Feliciano in time, and Germany, who immediately lunged for the gun. Ivan and Alfred were right next to him, although they trained their eyes on their past selves, who ogled back with equal amazement. Walther pulled the trigger just as Germany crashed onto him, the bullet shooting out in a wayward direction as the two tumbled to the ground.

"Ludwi—" Feliciano's eyes widened briefly before the force of the shot hit him in the upper shoulder, the bullet exiting and imbedding itself in the tree. He was thrown down without even a gasp. He did not stir, and for a terrifying moment Ludwig just stared at Feliciano's still body, watching a dark red splotch seep into his jacket and stain the sidewalk.

Walther crawled out from underneath Germany, groping around for his lost weapon, but by the time he touched it, Ludwig's foot had landed on his hand, crushing down relentlessly until he heard a crackling noise. Walther howled in pain, writhing in agony on the concrete; in one swoop, Ludwig picked up the man by his collar and dealt a heavy blow to Walther's face.

Germany, who was too alarmed to scramble to his feet, watched incredulously at Ludwig's face—his _own_ face—scrunch up in rage, his lookalike no longer bellowing words, just furious, bitter roars. The 1960 nations dared not to move, only stood there, frozen in terror and awe.

Gilbert paid no heed to Germany as he came up, yanking Ludwig's arm back before he threw another punch. "West!"

Ludwig clenched his teeth and pulled against the restraining hand. "Let go of me, bruder!"

"West, look at me!" Red eyes met blue ones, both shining with belligerency and stubbornness, but Gilbert's command was final. "You've done enough."

Germany saw his assistant crumple to the ground, his body as motionless as the woman that had been shot. Ludwig's eyes lost their feverish glint as he blinked, turning back to Feliciano and ripping a piece of cloth from his sleeve to press on the wound. But when he realized the bullet had gone through, he gingerly picked Feliciano up, marching right up to his past self despite Arthur's protests.

"I need to take him home," he said.

"Home…?" Germany repeated in a stupor.

"To your home. Or mine, I don't know anymore, _Goddammit_!"

Arthur rushed up. "We can't do that, Ludw—"

"He is bleeding!" he shouted hoarsely. "He is going to _die_ if I don't do something!"

"Nations can't die," Arthur said quietly, but both of them could hear the uncertainly hanging between them.

America took his chance to take Arthur's arm, gently shaking him and throwing a sideways look at Ivan and Alfred. "What exactly is going on, Iggy? Who are those kids? I've been traveling for days with the commie, I deserve an explanation—"

The Brit glanced at him. "Not now, America. Francis…" He pursed his lips as he looked at Aloisa, who was hastily getting up from the ground. "Will you…?"

"Of course, _Angleterre_."

But Aloisa disregarded the others, gradually falling in pace with her dad and Germany. She had remained silent ever since her previous outburst; she opened her mouth, but a thin, strangled voice emitted from her throat instead, "Vati…"

Germany stared at Aloisa in astonishment when Ludwig replied, "Yes, Aloisa."

"Is Mom…is he going to die?"

Ludwig looked as if he'd been smacked. "I don't—" He cleared his throat hastily. "No. He can't die."

But it sounded more like hopeful thinking than a fact.

* * *

_December 1, 1960, Germany's house, Munich, West Germany, 11:47 P.M…_

When they reached Germany's house, it was Romano who waited at the door, leaning against the wall in a peevish manner. "You never locked the door, potato bastard…s." One eye twitched as he recounted under his breath. "What. The. Fuc—"

"Excuse me." Ludwig slipped in and set Feliciano on the couch, his throat clicking when he saw the other Italy, who was also lying on a nearby sofa, unconscious. Spain immediately stood up from his seat, gasping at Feliciano's bloodied frame. "Dios Mio—"

Ludwig turned to Arthur expectantly. "Well?"

Arthur's breath hitched. "I-I can't."

"What do you mean, 'you can't'?" he hissed desperately. "I saw you heal that boy's broken arm last year!"

"It's different this time…"

"What is so different about this time?"

"I can help you, of course, but I'm not sure I'll be able to bring us back then."

Ludwig glared. "So help me." He added, "He can't die, can he? Italy's been through injuries far worse than this…"

"But not direct injuries, right?" Arthur closed his eyes for a moment. "The only wounds he's ever had are ones from his people and economy, and those don't affect him as much."

"What does that mean?" he snarled back. "He's not human—_we're_ not human—"

"We're not gods, Germany."

The words rendered him speechless, but Ludwig didn't have any more time to lose. "I lost him once. And that once will stay the last," he said firmly.

Arthur sighed. He would have to find another way to return then; it might take days, maybe even months… He shook that thought away. "…Alright."

Germany quickly made his way to Italy, gently brushing a stray brown bang that had fallen out of place, his expression agitated. There were no visible wounds that he could see, but Italy's face was as pale as the one next to him. "Feliciano…"

Meanwhile, Arthur pressed one hand to Feliciano's blood-soaked shoulder, the other reaching up to touch his forehead. The man was cold, his breath so shallow it was hardly detectable; the color was rapidly draining out of his cheeks. After a soft mutter, a small glowing light appeared on Arthur's palms, but that was all. "He's lost a lot of blood," he grumbled darkly.

Ludwig ran his fingers through his hair, upset. "Can't you do something?"

"Bloody hell, I'm _trying_! I can't do it all by myself, that's the problem—"

And it was then Arthur heard his own voice behind his shoulder, sounding rather astounded. "I don't suppose you'll want my help?"

Before Arthur could respond, England placed his gloved hand on top of his future self's shoulder, and the three watched the faint glow grow into a brilliant flash of white. As the light died away, Feliciano gave a shuddering sigh, his lidded eyes fluttering open. "Ve…Ludwig…?"

Ludwig didn't think he'd ever been this glad before in his entire life. He hugged Feliciano, gasping out in relief as the brunette let out a delighted squeak. "Ludwig! What are you—" His eyes lit up at the sight of his daughter. "Aloisa!" Feliciano sat up on the couch and gathered her into an embrace, smiling as he consoled the girl, who had broken out in a full-out bawl, in a quiet mix of English and Italian.

Lovino glided in and pulled Ludwig off of Feliciano, spitting out a long line of angry Italian while Romano gawked at him, his mouth twitching as he thought, _Do I really look like that?_ "_You idiot! You almost died! What the hell am I supposed to do if you died?"_

"Ve…but I didn't! Don't cry, fratel—"

"_I'm not crying, dumbass! I am going to smother the next person who says that!"_

"You can cry on my shoulder, Lov—_ack_!"

Italy made a tiny movement before opening his eyes, and Germany was afraid that he would give him that empty, mournful expression, but instead the man reached up and wrapped his arms around Germany's neck, holding on to him tightly. "I'm sorry I yelled at you, Ludwig! I'm really sorry!" When he pulled away, Germany was greeted with a pair of chocolate-brown eyes that gazed at him fondly, the original liveliness having somehow returned.

Germany's brows weaved together in confusion. "When did you ever yell at me?"

"I did! Just a few minutes ago—ah!" He gestured at Ludwig in surprise. "You're the one I yelled at! I'm sorry! And you're…" …_the woman in the picture. _"You're…" Italy trailed off.

From the corner of his eyes, both England and Arthur could see Natalia on the front lawn, setting down the mirror frame she'd somehow managed to carry from the park. Arthur whispered carefully, "You're with…?"

England nodded. "Francis."

Arthur released a mental sigh of relief. So he didn't screw everything up yet. "I presume you'll want to ask us about the future, wouldn't you?" he mumbled. It was taboo to meet with one's past self; hell, it was wrong to time travel, but it seemed like the matter was inevitable.

Strangely, England shook his head. "I can help you back."

"You don't want to hear what will happen?" Arthur asked, raising an eyebrow.

England's eyes laid on Alec and Evangeline, then to Feliciano with Aloisa, his expression softening. "I'm sure it won't be too bad," he muttered. He threw Arthur a meaningful look. "You should go soon. You've stayed here too long."

In the meantime, America crossed his arms in impatience as he turned to Adrian and Mikhail, who winced slightly. "So…who are you two exactly?"

Ivan smiled benignly, but it was clear that he was a tiny bit irked. "My sons."

Russia backed away in horror, apparently thinking that his sister had raped him in the future. "By?" he inquired.

"Me," Alfred replied, as if daring America to object. "You got a problem with that?"

Adrian wanted to bury himself in a hole. _You're not making things better, Mom. _

"Who are _you_?"

"I'm you."

"You're not me," he said stubbornly (and perhaps a mite apprehensively). "I-I mean, for one thing, you're with the commie bastard!"

"So?"

"A-and…and hypothetically speaking, if I was a girl, I'd have a bigger cleav—_ow_! _What the hell was that, lady_?"

Alfred rubbed his own cheek where he'd smacked his past self. Dumb move. "That's a three carat ring, that's what the hell it was!"

Both Ivan and Russia called "Alfred—" at the same time, to which America found extremely unnerving.

"I got this under control, Ivan!" Alfred said, grinding his teeth.

"Of course…"

In another corner of the room, Spain was peering at Felicita (in a way that was more akin to staring down a lab specimen) interestedly. "You look so much like me and Lovi! This is so cool!"

"Uh…"

Lovino rolled his eyes, annoyed. "No shit, bastardo!"

Romano was hovering between the stages of shock and sanity. "W-who said I'm going to have a kid with you, tomato bastard! I'm a guy!"

"But Lovi—"

The voices grew louder, overlapping each other with irate shouts and alarmed clamors. Arthur clapped his hand on Ludwig's back, motioning for him to go. There were less than ten minutes 'til twelve, and Arthur didn't want to stay any longer to find out what might happen. They needed a distraction, quick, especially since Alfred and America looked ready to start wrestling with each other…

His eyes dawned on the overhead lights reflecting on Alfred's ring, then at his own golden band. It was a crazy idea, but maybe…

Arthur twisted the ring off and showed it to England. "Please find this again, or else the frog will never let me hear the end of it."

"What are you going to do with—"

Without another word, Arthur hurled the ring at the light bulb while America was preoccupied, and to his luck, the glass actually shattered into pieces. The ring landed in Italy's lap with a soft thump, and his eyes widened in surprise. "Ve—"

For a total of five seconds of silence in pitch dark, Arthur forgot what he was about to say, but then, "It's the ghost of Elvis Presley!" he yelled.

America stood in place, stunned. "Elvis isn't dead—"

Oh, crap. So much for improvising.

While Arthur had only intended for only America to get scared shitless and make a ruckus in order for their escape, it ended up being Alfred who instantly leaped on Ivan (judging from the muffled sounds Ivan was making), shrieking bloody murder about drugs and nonsense. It would have to do. "Go!" he yelled.

Out the front door and down the porch they went, with Alfred still screaming and hanging on to Ivan's neck for dear life. England got to the mirror frame first, the backboard splitting open and replacing itself with a something that looked like a thin film of silvery slush when he slapped his palms on the wood. He did a double take before turning to Arthur. "Is it supposed to look like this?"

"Yes!" Arthur squinted at the frame for a second. "Actually…uh, maybe! It doesn't matter!" The other lights indoors flipped on, signaling that the 1960 nations were already recovering from the disruption.

Ivan, with Alfred in a tow, ran headlong into the frame, followed by his sister and Mikhail. Alec lingered, however, gazing through the unveiled window on Germany's house; the minute hand on the clock on the wall pointed at eleven. "What about Maman's ring—"

"It'll show up later!" Adrian gripped Alec's hand and wrenched him into a run, the two tumbling into the portal. Evangeline pulled at Arthur's shirt, beckoning him to come along.

"I'll go in later!" When Evangeline refused to budge, he shouted at Francis, "Take her!"

He felt Francis's hand pull at his fingertips. "_Anglet_—"

Arthur brushed him off. "I'll be fine!"

Lovino immediately shoved his husband and daughter (who clung to Antonio in a choking hold, staring at the mirror, mortified) in, scowling. "What's taking so long?"

As Lovino pushed them across the border, a rush of current ran through England's arm. "One—at—a—time!"

Italy was the first to stumble out of the house, waving frantically while holding up England's ring. "Wait!"

Gilbert's clutched Feliciano's wrist and started to sprint. "We should keep moving, people…!"

Ludwig threw a backward glance at the approaching man. "But that's only Italy, bru—"

"Exactly why we need to leave _now_!"

Without further hesitations, Arthur briefly tilted his chin at England, stepping into the portal himself. As he did so, however, Italy flung the ring after Arthur, tripping himself on his own shoelaces in the process. He had no idea if he'd made it in time or not.

By the time the rest of the 1960 nations had dashed outside, all they saw was England sitting on the lawn, appearing quite dazed, next to the pile of ashes that had once been the mirror frame. New snow fell on the blackened grass, leaving behind pale dots like footprints.

When America staggered down the porch, he was holding his head like he had a migraine, as were the others. "W-what happened, England?"

"What do you mean…?"

The blond rubbed his forehead tiredly. "Why is everyone here? Did I miss a meeting?"

England blinked. "N-no, there wasn't a meeting, Alfred."

He could only assume the memory wipe had happened when the frame collapsed on its own. In fact, the only signs that their future selves had ever been there were the two packs of beer on the kitchen counter, some plastic dog toys which Blackie was playing with, and a photo from Gilbert's wallet that he'd purposely misplaced.

* * *

_December 1, present, England's house, 11:58 P.M…_

For an unknown reason, Yukiko had been feeling jittery, so she went downstairs to attempt to make hot chocolate on her own (also analogous to spilling chocolate powder and milk all over the counter). That was when she saw the woman next to the mirror, pale and, to Yukiko's horror, transparent. Her gown was grey and hanging off her body, and not a single strand of hair hung out of place; a thin, scarlet line weaved around her neck like a choker made of string.

She raised one finger to gesture at the mirror, which rattled side to side as if in an earthquake. Yukiko edged away, carrying her mug (which contained just milk and congealed, dirt-colored stuff), all the way to the front door. The woman was still looking at her with those dead, milk-white eyes.

Yukiko screamed as she backed up and bumped into Denmark, whose face had a tinge of pink on one cheek (courtesy of Norway), empting half the contents of her cup all over his pants. "_Agh_!"

Norway stepped in and stared at the darkening spot on his husband's crotch. "Really, Danmark?"

"This isn't what it looks like—" He abruptly stopped, all three of them raising their heads at the shaking mirror frame. The woman from before had vanished.

In a frenzy, Norway ran and ripped the fabric covering off; the instant his hand made contact with the mirror, there came a great explosion of light and a blast of cold air, and the mirror deposited its disheveled travelers like beanbags. Before the portal erased itself, a small, glittering object shot out and landed into Yukiko's drink with a plop. She fished it out, startled—it was a ring.

A blond nation struggled to pull himself up. "Francis! Hands off my arse!"

"My apologies, _mon cher_—"

"Dammit, Veneziano! Your foot is in my face—"

"Sorry, fratello! …Ve, Ludwig, you're kind of crushing me…"

At exactly one minute past twelve, on Yukiko's birthday, they'd been hurled back to the present.

* * *

_December 2, 1960, Germany's house, Munich, West Germany, 12:01 A.M…_

France had ran ahead to help England up, and the Brit couldn't help but notice that they were awfully close, close enough for America to suspect that something was going on, but he didn't detect any traces of hurt in his voice. In fact, he couldn't quite interpret America's expression. If anything, the blond looked distracted.

"…I must've had some wacked-up dream, then!" America exclaimed nervously. "I have this strange feeling that something is off, though…like I'm forgetting something…"

England swallowed, switching his gaze from France to America. How was he to tell America about their future selves and the inexplicable memory loss? What about him and France? "I—"

"Must be your diet," Russia piped in drily. "American food kills brain cells."

"Ah!" America whipped around, his face mortified. "That's what I forgot! _You're_ the one who dragged me here!"

"Did I, now?" His tone was almost curious. "That is strange, because I cannot recall a reason for me to do so."

"Your…your sister! You were looking for your sister, and you dragged me into the mess, you asshole! I-I'm leaving!" He flung a look at England, flustered. "I'll see you later, England!"

He watched America stomp away with Russia trailing after him. England's hand squirmed around, trying to break free. "You can let go now, Francis."

"…hm?"

"I said you can sodding let go now, frog!"

France ignored him, his eyes glassy. "I had the strangest dream. I saw myself and you—" England tensed on that word. "—but you were the same, still cranky and wearing that unattractive frown—"

"You say one more word and I will leave you right here, Fra—"

France presented him with a doting smile. "_Je t'aime, c'est tout_."

_I love you, that's all. _

England's cheeks brightened as he successfully pulled away, heading towards the market. "Don't say it out loud!"

He snorted, pulling the Englishman close again. "So you do understand French."

"I—you're impossible!"

"_Tu es parfait_." France smirked, waiting to see how England would react, but he was a bit surprised when England stopped fretting and allowed France to hold him.

"I don't know what that means," England reluctantly said, muttering into France's shirt. "How should I tell America…" he said to himself absently.

The figures of Russia and America had receded to the edges of the park, their silhouettes flickering in the yellow lights and unconsciously coming closer together. "…Arthur, about the dream…"

"…mm?" He was tired enough to lean on the frog; too much magic used in one day sapped his energy. His eyes were half-lidded, his voice sounding drowsy.

"There was a girl and a boy…Arthur…? Arthur, are you okay?"

England's breathing evened out, his arms that were hanging around France's neck going slack. He shuffled a bit as France picked him up, trying to make himself comfortable. It was no wonder; France had dragged him across the border on an impulse. The muddled memories of a testy, green-eyed girl faded away; it was time to go home, and he was okay with that.

Spain had found Romano sprawled on the floor (apparently having been kicked in the head by Italy when he was scrambling to dash outside), and was currently carrying the knocked out man on his back. Italy apologized profusely, wailing that he didn't know where he was going. "It's okay," Spain assured him. "I better bring Lovi back before he wakes up though. _Que te cuides, Italia_."

There was a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that told him that he was forgetting something, but he supposed there was nothing a good night's sleep couldn't fix, especially one with his dear, temporarily harmless Lovi.

Italy and Germany were left in an awkward moment of silence, with Italy staring at the ground as if it was the most interesting thing in the world, and Germany fidgeting and resisting the urge to visibly twitch.

"Do you hate me, Germany?"

"Of course not," he replied.

Italy concentrated on a fleck of drifting snow, scared that he was unable to remember why he had ran out of the house, why he couldn't exactly recall what happened in the last few days. "I don't hate you, either," he admitted. "I just wish you can explain to me about Holy Rome…"

He had believed that this would spark some sort of recognition, but it did nothing of the sort. "I don't know anything about him, Italy," he said, embarrassed and baffled. "I'm sorry—"

Italy's hopeful look was wiped off and replaced by a wistful but otherwise accepting expression. He wondered if he would ever know what really happened to his friend. "Whoever you are, I'll…" He sucked in his breath, the words flowing out easier and more promising. "I'll always love Ludwig as Ludwig, okay?"

Because honestly, it didn't matter to him if Holy Roman Empire had been Germany or not. Not anymore. Maybe in due time, the truth would reveal itself, but for now…

He reached up again and kissed Germany on the mouth.

For now he was content with this.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: **This is it, the last chapter of PTP before we go on to the sequel (which, as of now, is still a big jumble of notes). I'm being repetitive, but I want to thank you guys, everyone who has read this story, for following CTD up to here. If all goes well (which probably won't, 'cause I've got to study for SATs and go to tutoring classes), there will be a short sequel, the last installment to the CTD series—**Sketching Out Memories**.I will see you guys then, if that ever happens! ^u^

**NEWS**: Did you guys vote for the **CTD/PTP website avatar**? There is a prize from me; the winner will get a written sidestory (topic of their choice) on CTD/PTP. And also, I noticed a lot of wonderful fanarts for CTD/PTP over there, so please go check them out! Thank you all for being so kind! ;A;

**Notes**:-This chapter has undergone so many revisions; I wanted it to turn out to be a decent ending. XD My brain is so fried right now.  
-I think I will be writing another USUK story if time allows, a parody of sorts where Alfred is dreaming himself in all these movies and Arthur seems to be his heroine in every single one.  
-England will eventually forget about what happened in 1960.  
-To a reviewer, **Sofia**: Thank you for taking your time and reading! And yes, I agree with you, sometimes my characters do turn out Sue-ish, and my world history is absolute fail; I will be more careful on the possible sequel! Once again, thank you for informing me~ ^u^  
-As for what happened to Evangeline's cell phone, I think I will get to that in SOM.

**Sp/grammatical errors and DM linked words _and_ plotholes (lol) will be corrected after publication. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

_Friday, December 2, present, 2:14 P.M., Drama classroom…_

Ms. Stevens had practically pounced on Aloisa when she walked through the door, gushing about deadlines and the play and asking exactly where she disappeared off to for the past few days and on and on until her sentences melded into a train-crash of a paragraph. She was just as Aloisa remembered—middle-aged, irritating; but despite all that, Aloisa found that she kind of missed her, much to her surprise.

"We went to…um…Canada. To pick up my uncle." Aloisa fumbled with her words for a moment, the onslaught of possible fibs tangling her tongue. She had told six of her friends different stories whenever they questioned her whereabouts, and for some reason one of them had involved escaping convicts (her mother's suggestion, actually). "And our car broke down."

The lady barely batted an eyelash, shoving at her the script. "Well, as long as you're here now! Really, I thought I was going to have to move along with the play without you!"

Aloisa went along with her until the teacher moved on to talk to another student about poise and stage directions. She meandered over to Evangeline, who was tapping furiously on her laptop. "How'd yesterday go?" she asked.

"My mum declared the basement off limits now, no one goes in except for hi—er, her," Evangeline said, correcting herself for the sake of the other students. "And apparently my brother thought it would be funny if he told Adrian we have a ghost in out house now."

"Do you?"

"Dunno. Either way, I don't think Adrian will be dropping by for a while," Evangeline said. "Are you still in the Christmas play?"

Aloisa showed her the script. "She insisted. You?"

"She gave the part to the understudy. I'll be backstage with Felicita watching you guys prance around in your fairy costumes." Evangeline stared at the screen intently, rapidly scrolling down and scanning the document. "She is also going to tell us that the opening date has been postponed to January."

"How exactly do you know this?"

"I have my ways."

Aloisa put one finger on the laptop and snapped it shut. "You made Mikhail hack the school system."

"Hey! I didn't save it yet!" The girl frowned at Aloisa, though she didn't deny the accusation. "Does it really matter?"

"Seriously, you are going to land him in jail someday."

She huffed and leaned back, turning her attention to a blue-eyed boy surrounded by a gaggle of giggling girls. "That guy there, that's our new backdrop designer."

Aloisa peered at the new boy, rolling her eyes when he winked at her. "Exchange student?"

She squinted at him curiously. "More like another Alec."

"Alec will be pissed that he's being upstaged," Aloisa muttered, swinging her gaze to Adrian and Alec's empty seats. "Where is he, anyways?"

The bell rang, and Aloisa gave a tiny start. As the students took their seats, Evangeline turned around to face Aloisa, concern flashing in her eyes. "Is your mum alright?" she whispered.

Thinking back on it, that was what puzzled Aloisa most, the fact that her parents didn't mention anything about 1960 or the mirror this morning at all. "He's okay. Evan, did your parents talk to you about—"

"Excuse me…"

Evangeline felt a hand tap her on the shoulder then. She raised an eyebrow at the new student, her eye twitching at how much he actually towered over her. He had to be at least as tall as Adrian. "Yes?"

"I don't think I've seen you two in this classroom before," the boy commented, slipping into his seat and setting his backpack on the ground.

_British, _she thought. _Definitely a British accent. _"Same goes for you," she said drily.

"I apologize," he said, his lips curving in amusement. "My name's Ian. Just moved in from London the day before, actually. Are you from England, by any chance?"

She tucked her laptop into her bag, a little creeped out by the way the boy was ogling at her. Frankly, he wasn't unattractive, not in the least, but there was an air of familiarity about him that unnerved her; it was as if she'd seen him from somewhere before. "Half, I suppose. I'm sorry, did you want something, um…Ian?"

Ian shook his head. "Nothing—I-I mean, you just look like this person I saw in my grandfather's photo album."

Evangeline blinked. "Haven't heard that one before."

"Take a look at this," Ian said, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a black and white photo, somewhat yellowed with age. "This is like, from prehistoric ages. That's my grandfather when he's about seventeen or so," he pointed the teenager out. "And that person…doesn't he look like you? His name is Alec, or at least that's what it says on the back. Man, I honestly thought that guy was a girl at first."

"Don't be ridicu—" She stopped mid-sentence and seized the picture. "What the—where did you get this?"

"My grandfather made me look for this watch that he lost. Nicked this from his attic when I was looking around, I thought maybe that'd tick him off, since he's real touchy about his stuff. He'll flip out, that's for sure, but that's only if he finds out." He laughed. "Besides, there's no way he's going to fly all the way over here for a picture."

"Aloisa!" she hissed at the girl. "Aloisa, look at this!"

The blond lifted her head. "Wha—"

"Aloisa! Please be quiet!" Ms. Stevens crossed her arms, her lips forming a thin line. "Unless there is something interesting you'd like to share with the rest of us?"

"N-no, I'm sorry." She glared at Evangeline, mouthing '_What do you want_?'"

"I have some important announcements!" Ms. Stevens bellowed out, as though the class was hard of hearing. "The play date has been moved to January 25th, along with…" She droned on, oblivious to the fact that half the class was fiddling their pencils around in disinterest and the other half was chatting discreetly amongst themselves.

In the middle of Ms. Stevens's speech, the door decided to open, letting in a frazzled looking Alec (who just happened to be limping) and Adrian, following behind him with a playful smile. "You forgot your scarf, Alec—"

Alec's eyes widened and instantly snatched it back, turning his neck and revealing a trail of bruises. "Give that back!" He plopped down in his seat, quickly rewrapping the scarf around his neck. "I'm so sorry, Ms. Stevens, I—" He slapped away Adrian's outreached hand before continuing, "I twisted my ankle. And Adrian was helping me. _Right, Adrian_?"

"Yep," Adrian agreed flatly. "Fell down some stairs."

At that exact moment, Ian stood up and stared at Alec. His mouth fell open to a gape as he blinked multiple times, as if he thought he was seeing things. "Your name…" he said slowly, "Your name is Alec?"

Alec brushed a stray bang out of his face. "Yeah, I'm Ale—_woah_!" His expression switched to one of mortification. "My God! H-how did—how did _you_ get here?"

"You're the guy from my grandfather's picture!" Ian reclaimed the photo from Evangeline's shaky hand and held it up. "This is you, isn't it?"

He remained silent for a second, but his face drained of color when he saw the picture. "…No?"

"You are! You're Alec, you look exactly like him—!"

"No, that is not me, you need new contacts or somethi—please let go of my shoulder—"

Melanie took her chance and launched herself on Adrian, grabbing onto his arm and pushing her face right up to his. "I couldn't find you all day! I missed you so much! Do you want to come to my house so we can practice our lines? We have a lot of lines together, don't we, Adrian?"

"…Okay, I am completely lost—"

She pulled a fake pout, making a face that she clearly thought was supposed to look utterly adorable and irresistible. "It's Alec again, isn't it? He's such a loser, stop hanging out with him! You'd have more fun with me—"

Aloisa could literally see Evangeline's face turn scarlet. "That's my brother you're talking about, you little bit—!"

In five minutes flat, the Drama classroom had once again transformed into a storm of yelling and heated accusations. At one point, Aloisa thought she even saw someone's half-eaten sandwich being flung over her head. Ms. Stevens's frantic protests did nothing to calm the crowd, and it took both Alec and Adrian to peel an enraged Evangeline off of Melanie.

It was only when a student from the French classroom pushed the sliding wall and stuck her head through, yelling out obscenities in a mix of elementary French and English, did the commotion finally die down.

And what Aloisa found ironic was that the girl that screamed at them to shut up was the one who had been hanging off of Francis's waist just a couple days ago.

* * *

_Afterschool, creek path along the park, on the way home, 3:01 P.M…_

"I can't believe you left behind a picture with you in it," Evangeline admonished, crossing her arms and scowling at Alec.

"I didn't know the idiot was going to _keep_ it," he said peevishly. "Don't tell Maman, okay?"

"What's in it for me?"

He groaned. "Why is it that whenever I ask for help there always have to be something 'in it' for you?"

In the end, after the whole Drama fiasco, Ms. Stevens composed herself and deducted ten points from everyone in the class, along with a stern warning, as if redeeming position by performing her teacher-ly duty of lecturing (which she hardly did in the first place). Adrian had finally lost Melanie, as did Alec with Ian, in the crowd when the bell rang, but neither knew exactly how to deal with the situation without involving their parents.

Felicita was swinging her bag back and forth as she walked, her expression troubled. "I'm getting this feeling that somebody is following us."

"This might not be the best time to say that," Mikhail said, looking around the empty street warily.

"It's probably nothing," she murmured. "It's just that…" Every time the group's chatters faded away, the rustling noise of grass would stop; when the conversation picked up, the sounds would return, accompanied by heavy footfalls.

Aloisa grinned. "Well, if it's nothing then—"

And out of the bushes, a shadow leaped right for Aloisa, cackling uproariously. "Aloisa!"

Mikhail was preparing to jump in front of the blond in an attempt to shield her from the attacker until said attacker somehow crash-landed on him. "I got you, Alo—_ugh_—"

In that split second, Aloisa had fallen backwards and landed on her bottom, changing the man's target and knocking him right onto Mikhail. Felicita thought Aloisa would really start to bash on the guy with her textbook, but she hesitated at the last moment, gaping at him in disbelief. "Onkel Gilbert?"

Mikhail rolled him off onto the sidewalk, pressing his palm to his forehead as he got to his feet. He had not seen that one coming.

"You didn't have to hit so damn hard, Aloisa—"

"What the hell were you doing?"

"Saying hi, what do you think—"

"Why can't you say hi like normal people?" she cried in exasperation. "Oh God, I'm so sorry, Mikhail—Say sorry, Onkel!"

Gilbert pulled himself up and studied Mikhail, his red eyes narrowing. "Sorry, Russia, didn't see you there." Before Aloisa could smack his arm, he sidestepped and his smirk returned. "I know you guys are all stunned to see the Awesome Me here, but I didn't come here just for you to admire my awesomeness!"

"We don't need it," Aloisa replied blandly.

He ignored her, letting out a string of his weird snickering. "I actually wanted you guys to meet someone who's almost as awesome as me!" He placed both hands on his waist, smiling in a superior fashion, and Evangeline noted that the little chick on his head was imitating him by displaying its fluffy wings and chirping enthusiastically.

From down the street appeared a man sprouting a curl from the top of his hair, panting hard as if he had been running to catch up with Gilbert. "Gilbert, don't run off like that!" he chided.

When he looked up, he gave the teens a shy smile, although his face lit up when he recognized Aloisa and Evangeline. Standing next to Gilbert, the two made a mismatched pair, but it was clear that Gilbert doted on him, the way the Prussian pulled him closer and ruffled his hair.

"I haven't seen you girls in a while," Matthew remarked. "I heard about…um, what happened the last few days. Are you all alright?"

Adrian wanted to say something so it wouldn't make him look like a dolt in front of Alec, but he found that Matthew looked so similar to his mom he could scarcely tell them apart from a distance. But while Alfred was loud and flashy, he was reserved and slight, filling in the part of modesty Gilbert never had in the first place.

Other than that, Matthew was totally Alfred's clone. Twin. Whatever.

Gilbert seemed surprised; his brow arched upwards in questioning. "You already know them, Mattie?"

"Just Evangeline and Aloisa," he said. "I've met all of them last year, remember, Gil?"

"…Nope."

Matthew exhaled. "Really, Gil—"

"My brain is too awesome for little details, that's why I have you here!" He placed a kiss on the blond's forehead, earning him a disgruntled sniff from Matthew. "Oh yeah. I thought today was Japan's kid's birthday or something."

"I know when her birthday is, Onkel, we've been planning something for her—"

"Last minute planning, you mean," Evangeline stressed.

"I had the idea for a while, Evan. I just ran out of time." Aloisa leaned on one leg, annoyed. "Besides, Yukiko's birthday is on Fr—"

…Wait.

_Her birthday is on Friday, and today is…_

"Oh, shit." Aloisa placed ran her fingers through her hair, pacing around. "Okay, okay. Felicita, Mikhail, and I will go to my house to get the presents. Adrian, Evangeline, and Alec will go to their house to get the food—no wait. Alec will blow up the kitchen, you come with us, and Felicita will switch places with him—"

"Hey!"

"—and we'll bring everything and meet at the park. Any questions?"

"Yeah, I got one," Alec snapped. "How come everyone assumes that I can't cook—"

"Because it's true. Adrian, bring him, you're coming with us! Mikhail, go with Evangeline!"

"I can walk by myself just fine! Let me down—!"

Mikhail seemed slightly disappointed but he complied and set off in the opposite direction, leaving his brother, who was currently piggybacking a furious Alec, trying to avoid the arms flailing around his head. Felicita, on the other hand, played the thumps of those solemn footsteps she'd heard over and over again in her mind; somehow she felt that they sounded too weighted and ominous to have belonged to either Gilbert or Matthew, although she didn't bring it up.

Matthew let his hand hover over Gilbert's shoulder, getting his attention. "Yeah, what is it, Mattie?"

"I'm going to go with Evangeline," he said. "I haven't seen France or England for a while now, I want to talk with them about some things."

"I thought I was supposed to show you around!" Gilbert began to argue, but he shut up when the Canadian gazed at him imploringly. "Okay. Okay, fine, be that way. I'll just wallow in my awesomeness. By myself."

"Don't be such a drama queen. I'll see you at the park. Oh, and—" Matthew turned on his heels and looked as sternly as he could at the other. "—World Summit is next year, according to my boss. We haven't decided the location yet, but I want you to swear that you won't do anything stupid."

"When have I ever done that?"

"You know, last year when you walked in half-drunk." He sighed, his lashes lowering. "Promise me, Gil: just stay out of the meeting room. Or I'll lock you out if I have to. And don't drink too much."

"I'm not falling for that puppy-dog face anymore. This is a difficult decision, Mattie. I don't know if I can do it. Beer, or you. Beer, or you…beer…or beer—_ow_, _ow_, _ow_, alright, alright, I was _kidding_!"

"You better be."

Gilbert rubbed the sore spot on his arm where Matthew had twisted until a notion struck him. "Hey, Mattie, I almost forgot! I heard that your brother's having another kid!"

Matthew skidded to a sudden stop, the curl on his head defying all laws of gravity and bouncing up and down as if it had a mind of its own. "Excuse me?"

* * *

_January 25, present, school theatre, 5:00 P.M… _

For all intents and purposes, they expected to be a small gathering for Yukiko at the park. Until thirty other nations magically showed up out of thin air and somehow changed the event into a carnival of sorts. Not that anyone minded, of course.

They had given Yukiko a scrapbook stocked full with the pictures from the D.C. trip, and a red satin hair ribbon. Natalia wouldn't stop following Adrian around, with Elizaveta sometimes, if Alec was present. Hanna's parents looked interesting, Felicita thought; although Tino assured Evangeline and her several times that Berwald wasn't as frightening as he appeared, they had a difficult time judging for themselves when the Swede's glower intensified into a death glare as he laid eyes on Denmark. _If looks could kill_, they concluded, _the park would be in flames by now_.

Aloisa also noticed no one talked about their little accidental trip to the past. In fact, it was as if they were purposely avoiding that particular subject for reasons unknown.

But it seemed that everyone enjoyed themselves. There was pasta, cuisines from half the world; Francis had successfully kept Arthur out of the kitchen, Gilbert got drunk (as was the norm), Norway didn't looked like he had the heart to beat up Denmark (too much) this time, and nations were introduced. And when Yukiko grabbed a handful of balloons and released them into the night sky, it felt like they carried away a small fraction of the insecurities brought back from 1960.

Christmas was hectic as usual. Aloisa didn't know what to say when Berwald mentioned that "m'wife will b' d'liver'ng presents all n'ght."

"Like Santa Claus," she said, half-chuckling out of nervousness.

"H' is S'nta."

She honestly believed that Berwald was joking, even with that intimidating scowl plastered on his face. That is, until Tino flew across the sky in a sleigh pulled by fucking _reindeers_, throwing down colored boxes which, by some miracle, landed right in Aloisa's hands.

That aside, winter vacation passed by as it had before: Feliciano made too many Christmas cookies (again), Gilbert drank too much (again), and so on and so forth.

It had been around a month since Yukiko and her parents flew back to Japan. During those four weeks, the kids had shifted back to reality; Felicita had her exams coming up, as did Evangeline. Aloisa and Mikhail were stressing about colleges, their situation as impending-cities being pushed to the back of their heads; they hadn't completely forgotten that matter though. Alec had his sights set on a design college, focusing more on research than, well, Adrian. But Felicita would still see the two around campus; Alec leaning on Adrian's back and working on his laptop, Adrian flipping through a thick book of programming language or whatnot that she could barely understand. They'd stay there for an afternoon, and as cliché as it sounded, enjoying each other's presence as they finished up their studies.

What should she do? Felicita wondered. In one month, her friends had all become preoccupied, and it scared her that she didn't exactly know what she was going to do. It was as though she was the only one that felt like a little kid. She really hoped her dad was joking when he suggested that she should become a farmer and harvest tomatoes (needless to say, Lovino slapped him upside the head).

Felicita was hanging up plastic vines around the stage when Ian sauntered in, carrying the backdrop in a roll under his arm. "Need a hand?" he asked.

"Sure." At least Ian wasn't as much of a creeper as James Chase had been, even Alec admitted to that. After he recovered from his initial shock, he seemed to have let the matter go entirely. _'Coincidence,' _he had said nonchalantly—or was it 'Photoshop'? Felicita couldn't remember. "Can you get a ladder for me?"

While he bustled around backstage, Felicita couldn't help herself and popped a question, "You're a senior, aren't you?"

"Yeah? What about it?"

He returned with the ladder, and Felicita scrambled up, motioning for him to hand her the ornaments. "What do you plan on doing after high school?"

"Not sure. Maybe go back to London. Or I might hang around. Which would you prefer?" he added cheekily.

She chucked a wax apple at him, which he caught neatly in one hand. "It wouldn't hurt if I stayed," he continued, tossing the apple back. "My grades aren't that atrocious. I could move to Hollywood and become a movie star—"

"You could be the school janitor," Felicita said.

He shrugged good-naturedly. "Somebody's got to do that."

"Right. Pass the duct tape—" She paused, her eyes catching the silhouette of a shadowy figure by the far exit. "Who's that?"

Ian glanced about, scrunching up his eyes as he viewed the dimmed room. "Who's who?"

"That guy, overth…wait, he's gone—s-stop laughing, I'm not kidding! There really was this guy there, and he was staring at me—"

"Oh, I believe you, sweetheart. I mean, who wouldn't want to stare at you?"

"Ha, ha, don't call me that."

He picked up the backdrop, slinging them onto his shoulder. "My apologies. I'll just be moving these to the back. And you—" He flashed his teeth, and Felicita nearly forgot that she was supposed to be pissed. "I will see you backstage in an hour—"

"Uh-huh…"

"—and watch out for stalkers!"

"Yeah, yeah."

But that made her think a bit. Why would anyone have a reason for following her?

* * *

_January 25, present, school theatre, backstage, 8:10 P.M…_

The show was proceeding along rather well, in spite of the disaster Alec was sure they'd been headed for. And okay, even though Melanie was intent on sticking her foot out to trip him every time he got too close, and despite that the female population of the audience (mostly mothers and college girls) were crowded around Francis, thus further provoking Arthur, and even though it had begun raining outside (pouring, actually), even though Adrian's mom started cheering for his sons as if he was at a baseball game, and that Natalia had managed to sneak backstage to film every part that included either of her nephews…

So the course of the play hadn't run as smoothly as it could've, but it was still a hell lot better than what he'd expected, technical difficulties and all.

The bows were done, the curtain had gone down, and the rest of the cast were moving around in a dazed trance, congratulatory pats on the backs exchanged as they passed by. Ellen Mercer, Aloisa's friend, rushed up to Alec with an apologetic expression, her face flushed from wearing the heavy dress, as was Helena's costume, and the spotlights.

"I'm so sorry, Alec! I screwed up in a lot of places, I just blanked out, you know—"

He gave her a quick hug. "You did great."

"Not as well as you. By the way, someone was asking for you just a minute ago. Left backstage exit," Ellen said, pointing it out.

"Who?"

"Not sure. Might be your fans or something. See you later!"

As she moved away, another figure came up and wrapped their arms around Alec, pressing a kiss to his neck. "Good job out there," Adrian commented. "How'd I do?"

"You didn't mess up as bad as I thought," Alec answered, leaning back and letting his head rest in on Adrian's shoulder for a minute. "But there's room for improvement."

"Of course there is," he echoed sarcastically, but he grinned amusedly at the other. "Are you free tomorrow?"

"Maybe." Alec untangled himself and attempted to look cross. "And why don't we bring Melanie along while we're at it? Us three, we'll have such a _swell_ time—"

"She won't know where I'm going."

"She doesn't have to know," Alec countered. "She probably planted a GPS in your brain when you were sleeping."

"Scout's honor, Alec."

"You weren't a boy scout."

His face turned stubborn. "Yeah I was," he insisted. "My mom made me."

"Alright, alright…"

"Tomorrow?"

"Maybe."

Adrian reached out and grasped his wrist, his teasing smile falling. "Alec!"

"I'll think about it—"

"Then that's a yes. Pick you up at three!"

Alec whipped around, alarmed, but Adrian had dashed away in time and caught up to Mikhail, shrugging off his costume coat and flinging it on one of the chairs. There was no helping that anymore; once Adrian set his mind on something, his decision hardly wavered again. _I guess you can count that as perseverance, if you put it in a nice way, _Alec thought.

He wandered to the far corner, checking behind the stacked boxes for whoever Ellen said had called. "Hello?"

No answer.

Alec whistled a short note. "If no one's here, I'm just gonna—_aah_—_mmph_!"

He barely had any time to react when the hand reached out and covered his mouth, grabbing him behind the curtains. Right next to his ear, a low voice growled, "Stay quiet and I'll let you go."

The blond nodded, too frightened to oppose; he instantly backed up against the boxes when he was released, breathing hard. "W-who—"

"Haven't seen you in a while," the man mused. "You've grown up. Congratulations on the play, Alec." He produced a single rose from within his coat and offered it from his right hand, his lips cracking into a simper as he rolled the last word off his tongue. Half of his face was obscured by the shadows and his hat; Alec took note that his left arm he kept hidden behind his back.

Alec didn't move. "Who are you?"

"I don't suppose you would care to remember me. Your friend gave me this little slit on my throat." He traced the line with a finger, scowling. "She did worse to my hand, but you wouldn't know that."

"I-I don't understand—"

The man chuckled darkly, lifting Alec's chin with his good hand. "I'm not supposed to talk to you, as were my orders, but I'd hate to see your pretty face scarred. I offer you a choice: come with me, and answer all the questions I ask, or stay and watch your friends and parents get hunted down like animals."

"You're crazy!" Alec slapped his wrist away. "Y-you wouldn't dare do something like that!"

"I wouldn't," he agreed. "I won't touch a hair on your friends or parents, and neither will my boss. We don't have to."

"Then how—?"

Footsteps echoed on the wooden planks, followed by someone calling for him. "Alec! Alec, where'd you go?"

Alec flinched as the man tucked the rose behind his ear, stepping backwards towards the open exit. Night air flowed in from the outside and blew his bangs astray. The rain had stopped, leaving behind a damp, musky smell. "Think about it, Alec."

Evangeline poked her head in the curtains curiously, blinking at Alec in a befuddled manner. "Nice flower," she said. "You ready to go?"

He tentatively laid his hand on his ear, his fingers brushing against petals before he threw it down. "…Yeah, I'm ready."

* * *

_December 3, 1980, World Meeting room, 6:32 P.M…_

"…and we will stop here for now. We'll continue the meeting next Friday, same time."

America watched Germany shuffle his papers as an eager Italy held on to his arm, chattering about pasta and Spain and cats; normally Germany would shake him off, but he did nothing of the sort. He even looked like he was listening (okay, half-listening) to what the brunette was spewing out.

As slow as some might call him, America already knew that France and England were together. Sure, England almost seemed to have expected him to fuss about it, but he didn't. He was a hero, and right now, the heroes had to get their priorities straightened and fight back against the rising forces of communism (mainly Russia, the creepy bastard) before the world disintegrated under commie regime.

England seemed happier, though most of the time he appeared more aggravated by France's streaking habits than not. It was really too bad _he_ wasn't the one making the Brit smile, America thought.

As nations filed out of the meeting room, America remained in his spot, acting as if he was leafing over the documents that had been gone over today. France had looked especially spirited when he led England out of the room, despite swears and protests being flung at him. Ah, well, it was Friday. Maybe he had something ridiculous planned, like a romantic escapade that America knew England pretended to hate—

"America?" ventured a voice. "May I have a moment?"

His heart skipped a beat. "Goddammit, Braginski. Don't sneak up on people." At least the commie and him were no longer on first-name basis. America stuffed the files back into his briefcase and pushed his chair in, hinting that he was _leaving _and didn't want to talk. "What do you want?"

"I believe my boss has requested a meeting with you, seeing as there are some matters that we should go through." He raised an eyebrow. "Are you free right now?"

"If you're asking me out, it ain't working." He grabbed his overcoat and slung it over his shoulder. "Whatever your boss wants, that's his problem. Why don't you tell him to leave a message at the front desk—"

America had hardly gone a few steps before Russia called out, "What if it wasn't my boss who wanted to talk with you?"

"…What are you saying?" He didn't turn around, lest show Russia how red his face had gotten.

"What if I was asking you out?"

"I—" Dammit, what was he doing? "Piss off."

A loud cheer erupted outside, and down the hall America saw France pull a clearly embarrassed England into a kiss, Japan and Hungary snapping pictures at warp speed, and nations clapping and offering their congratulations. America caught sight of a glimmer on England's left hand before the crowd closed in and blocked his view.

He was silent, then, "No funny business, Braginski."

Russia blinked. "Excuse—"

"How many times do you want me to say it?" America grumbled, thoroughly flustered. "One drink, that's it."

A smile crept up. "I am not sure I under—"

"Dammit, Braginski, I don't have all day! Take it or leave it!"

"Very well," he said, beaming delightedly, "_Alfred_."

* * *

_December 31, 1981, England's office, 7:12 P.M…_

England was twirling his fountain pen in one, concentrating on his planner until the words started to blur. _Dinner with Francis, 8:00, _was circled many times, with the name Francis scratched out and replaced by 'frog'. He laid his cheek on the other side of the planner, staring at nothing in particular. He had reached the last page of the calendar, and as a product of his boredom he had scribbled out, _The Future, _in the corner of the paper, decorated with little fairies and a doodle of a unicorn.

The door opened and his assistant walked in, bearing a bunch of letters. "Mr. Kirkland, please excuse me—"

The Brit snapped back upright, closing his planner with a slap and busied himself with a pile of papers that happened to be handily located to his right. "Ah, yes, Charles…I was just…working."

"Alright, sir. This is the mail today," he explained, placing them in neat stacks on England's desk. "These are all from the Parliament—"

"Shouldn't Kate have checked them first?" he asked, referring to the front desk.

"She went home early," Charles said. "Her father's birthday is today, I believe…"

"I see…" England tapped the second pile. "And these?"

"From Mr. Matthew Williams. And these are sent by Mr. Jones's boss."

"Doesn't Alfred do anything by himself?" England said, frowning in disapproval. "Pushing responsibilities onto other people…"

"His boss has informed us that Mr. Jones is in…" He squinted at his clipboard. "Russia, it says. Diplomatic trip."

"Diplomatic trip my arse," England muttered, but there was a hint of humor present in his tone. "What else?"

"That's it, Mr. Kirkland," the assistant said. "Have fun on your dinner with Mr. Bonnefoy."

England started to cough, having choked on his own sentence. "How—how do you know that?"

"Mr. Bonnefoy himself phoned us as a reminder."

_Bloody frog. _"I-is that so? What else did he say?"

"Not much, sir. Is there anything else, Mr. Kirkland?"

"N-no. Thank you, Charles."

His assistant nodded farewell and excused himself, leaving England to slump back on his chair. _Who would've thought it'd have come to this? _England mused. _Russia and Alfred. Next thing you know they'll be having kids or something._

Into his mind popped up a very vague image of two teenagers, the two sporting a blend of both America and Russia's traits. And strangely, he had difficulty recalling where and when he'd seen these faces. At last, he just resigned to the fact that his imagination must be shooting up for him to even conjure up a picture of future Russia-America hybrids. His eyes wandered to his reopened planner, landing on the page he'd been scrawling on.

_As for the future…_

* * *

_December 31, 1988, restaurant in Italy, 8:12 P.M…_

Italy gazed gladly at Germany, practically bouncing in his seat. They were in a restaurant in Italy, dining on the rooftop. Each table was relatively far apart, so the soft chitchat from the other patrons were kept at a dim hum. The candlelight illuminated Italy's face, lighting up his smile. "It isn't often you ask me out for dinner, Germany!" He looked down at his plate shyly then. "Thank you, ve…"

"It's the end of the year, I thought we might celebrate."

"Of course!" Italy said brightly. "We should celebrate that Spain proposed to my fratello, and that he said yes! You know, after fratello slapped him and cried, that is."

_We should be celebrating that Romano moved to Spain's house for good, _Germany thought. _Not that he wasn't staying there four times a week already. _"I suppose—"

"Spain was so happy, ve! He even picked fratello up like he did a long time ago, but then he had to set him down because fratello was trying to tear out his face…" Italy shrugged, then sighed contently. "I heard that Kiku is dating Greece. And that Gilbert is with Canada!"

"_Bruder_? He never told me this."

"I'm sure he will. Later." Italy idly twirled the pasta on his fork, staring elsewhere. "Everyone is so changed…"

Germany gave him a steady look. "We won't change," he said determinedly.

"Hm?" Italy turned back, his attention diverted. "Oh, I wasn't talking about that."

"A-ah—"

Italy picked up his wineglass delicately and looked longingly into the red liquid. "Nothing is forever, Germany. But thank you for telling me this." He grinned. "After all, if Ludwig is here with me, I'm happy."

Italy's joyous expression was familiar, comforting, and it reminded him of a nameless little girl from seemingly centuries ago. The memory was always misty and distorted whenever it happened to come up. He would dream himself wearing a dark cloak, meeting with a girl that bore an uncanny resemblance to Italy.

For now, he raised his glass to Italy. "Cheers."

He would not know this, but in three years, he would recall the scene more clearly, until he could hear the girl call his other name and promise him that she'd be waiting for him to come back.

On that day, he will propose to Italy. Not as a country, not as Holy Roman Empire.

Just Ludwig.

* * *

_February 21, present, Aloisa's home, 12:10 P.M…_

Aloisa could hear her uncle arguing with Felicita's mom (God knows why they kept coming over to eat) downstairs, yelling about who could use the kitchen first. Then came a crash and a splatter, followed by Ludwig's deafening roar and her name.

_As for the future…_

Her desk was cluttered with schoolwork and scattered papers; photos were taped on the wall, one of them being the one from when she was little—they were at the beach, Gilbert had forced some poor passerby to take the picture and then made several copies of it; he was pulling the corners of Ludwig's mouth into an awkward smile, like a Jack-o'-Lantern. Feliciano was chortling at the three, while Aloisa dug her hands into Ludwig's hair and messed it up. She hadn't thought much about the picture before.

"_Aloisa_!"

"I'm coming!" She tossed the documents her parents had given her back into the yellow file, slipping it under her history textbook.

…_well, who knows._


End file.
